The Agent
by wryter501
Summary: After 6 months in Uther's cadet corps, Merlin faces freedom - and the question of what he wants to do with the rest of his life. He agrees to escort Freya to a new home with her family, but Agent Arthur may have other plans for him... "What'll it be?" Arthur said to Merlin, who cursed the agent, then agreed with a terse, "I'll do it." Sequel to The Revenger. Canon pairings, A/U.
1. Sage Springs

**Prologue**

No one remembered how it started, though everyone had a reason why it should continue. The theft of someone's pig or cow. Or daughter. The movement of the boundary stone at the edge of a field to increase land at a neighbor's expense. The contesting of an inheritance when the wording of the will was vague.

Or maybe the murder of an entire family.

It was two generations old, this feud, maybe three. The retaliations had continued, had escalated, had expanded til few in the whole of Sage Springs were unaffected, and many were involved in violently tangling things further.

Yet one day someone had judged enough was enough. Someone unable or unwilling to exact their own vengeance, someone wealthy enough to make the three-day trip south the Camelot and gain Uther's attention.

Agent Lancelot had been sent some weeks earlier, so the rumor among the troops went. After an initial report on the utter chaos of the situation and the impossibility of one unaccompanied agent being able to sort it, no further word had been received. Neither had the agent returned.

So a company of cadets had been detailed for a peacekeeping mission, three weeks before Merlin's coming-of-age.

His fellow cadets were, for the most part, under-aged orphans like himself, with a handful of petty criminals serving a five-year-or-less sentence, who preferred fresh air and a chance to die fighting to a tiny shared cell with no windows or lights or chances to leave for any reason whatsoever.

For this mission, since the objective was restoring domestic peace, the cadets were issued only clubs from the arms-room at the end of the two-story brick barracks. Two to two-and-a-half feet long, the clubs tapered slightly to a knobby grip and a hole drilled for a knotted leather strip worn about the wrist to keep the weapon handy when hand and fingers were otherwise needed.

So armed, and dressed in uniform hunting shirts and coats, trousers with leather spatter-dashes fastened to protect their shins and keep dirt and stones from filtering into low cheap shoes, and knit caps over newly-shorn heads, packs with bedroll attached slung by straps over both shoulders, they marched three days north to Sage Springs.

And the flowers bloomed, and the fruit trees blossomed, and the fields greened with new crops, and the young of the livestock struggled to life under the watchful care of their mothers.

…**..*….. …..*….. Chapter 1: Sage Springs …..*….. …..*…..**

"What do you think, sir?" the young lance-corporal asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

He'd asked the same question before every planned engagement the past three weeks. Since Merlin had called their captain an idiot to his face – an idiot and a fool and many other things intended to be more insulting, and taken that way. Since he'd gained twelve lashes for that outburst and lost the lance-corporal's sleeve-patch – though not for the first time – to this slender boy who shaved because of orders and not yet because he had to.

Merlin shrugged, shifting his crouch slightly. It mattered to him little, one way or the other, whether this young man – Daegal was his name – obeyed his orders for the morning's attack, or not.

Another cadet moved up beside him, club gripped tightly, drops of sweat already rolling down from the blond stubble visible where his cap had been nervously shoved back. This one looked younger, if possible, than the lance-corporal. "What are we going to do?" he whispered, his gaze darting between his current and former leaders.

Merlin shifted again to glance behind at the other three cadets in the squad, concealed in the ditch at the edge of a field between them and the two-story whitewashed farmhouse. He believed he was the closest to his coming-of-age of the six of them, except for one dim-witted pickpocket back in the cadet corps for the third time.

If he spoke up to advise against following orders, it would be for the sake of these boys. He'd be punished, almost certainly, no matter the outcome of the engagement, but that wouldn't be the first time, either.

"Sir?" Lance-Corporal Daegal said again, sounding more desperate and looking twelve years old under his cap. "Captain Nathlan's orders were to wait half an hour after sun-up, then march through the field simultaneously the other squads approach all around. But it seems to me –"

"Nathlan's an idiot," Merlin growled, shrugging his pack and bedroll to the ground, and unbuttoning his coat. "He wants to wake up with the sun, himself, and have his first cup of coffee before he supervises the attack, safely from the rear. Meanwhile the rebels in the farmhouse – and he won't wait for an accurate count to know what we're up against – are also waking, dressing, arming themselves. Changing the watch, if they've set one."

He peeled the coat down over his shoulders, pulling the cuffs over his hands behind his back.

"We're coming from the west, which means the sun will be in our eyes and blazing off each of these buttons as we march –" he bit the word out sarcastically – "toward our enemy in their perfect and complete cover."

"Yes, sir, I guess you're right," Daegal faltered. "Our orders –"

"Our orders may get us all killed," Merlin snapped, and the young man blinked. The others muttered behind him.

"Neglecting our orders get us killed too," drawled the pickpocket, but didn't offer any other solution.

"So will deserting," said the sweaty blond boy next to Merlin. "If we're not here for the fight –" He stopped as Merlin made his move, crawling to the top of the ditch.

A low gray mist still covered most of the field, a natural cover that would dissipate at the sun's first rays. Dawn, Merlin judged, was a quarter of an hour away, probably less. He unfastened his club from his belt and slid his hand through the leather thong at the handle, gripping it to prevent it banging and swinging about.

Crouching low, he left the relative safety of the ditch and circled several yards to their right to utilize a hedge of last year's unmown grass and weeds, scrubby brush, and a few gnarled trees left in place when the land was originally cleared, between that field and the next. He heard the rustle of clothing and shoe soles on new grass and old leaves behind him, and didn't have to wonder if any had remained in the ditch.

None of them had any experience to speak of in fighting, even the pickpocket, prior to the training provided by the cadet corps. In the last six months, Merlin had been promoted and demoted as many times, flogged twice, and set in the stocks almost weekly, for insubordination and for fist-fighting. Communal bathing facilities meant everyone in the barracks had seen his scars, and cadets were as bad as farmwives for gossip. His squad followed him now for his experience.

What did he care? What did any of it matter?

There were so many cadets, the squads changing almost weekly, he didn't remember any of their names beside the young lance-corporal, but he had a hard time forgetting they had more in common with him than any others he'd met since the day he was orphaned himself. These boys were parentless and alone; no matter how their parents died, violently or peacefully, unexpectedly or from long illness, they had all suffered loss before time, and had no one to take them in.

And did he care? Really? About any of it? What reason did he have for doing anything, anymore?

His lack of motivation didn't matter. None of them deserved to die because the captain wanted to sleep in and enjoy his cup of coffee, ignore the lack of adequate information about the target.

For now, that was reason enough.

They came up to the farmhouse quickly and silently as possible, trying not to raise an alarm nor linger in the open, the five cadets and the young lance-corporal, who was not in the lead and showed neither resentment over that fact nor the desire to change it. A squad by stealth could accomplish more swiftly and safely what a company would take casualties and hours to do.

And Merlin was used to working by himself, or with few others.

They came up to the porch, Merlin motioning the pickpocket and the other two cadets to circle the house to the right, keeping below the level of the windows. They all knew from the previous evening's briefing the position of the front and back doors, and the three windows – two in the kitchen and one into a small sitting room off the hall where the front door opened. That much could be seen from their camp across the field.

The skirmishes they'd been involved in since coming to Sage Springs had been about surprise and capture – mostly successful in spite of the stupidity of the captain, in Merlin's opinion – but it seemed the fighting folks of Sage Springs took exception to government involvement in their feud, and resisted the cadets. So far the unit had suffered only four deaths, but most had at least one cut or bruise gathered in combat to brag about. Merlin hadn't, yet, but he chalked that up to experience, and to luck. It wasn't for lack of action, that was sure.

"You see me pass that window," he told the blond boy in a low voice, "you smash this one and duck. For three seconds. Then you're up and ready to throw that club if need be. If not, you're in that door and covering us quicker than blinking."

"Sir," the boy replied in affirmation, slipping the leather strap off his wrist in readiness.

A crooked finger was all it took for dark-eyed Daegal to follow Merlin, stepping quietly around the corner of the farmhouse, listening for voices or other noises from the kitchen. He heard both, but not loudly enough to determine how many, or gender, or positions inside the room. It was clear, however, that they didn't yet suspect the presence of the cadets; the kitchen door was not latched on the inside.

Merlin took a deep breath. The door was just on the other side of the window, but he wouldn't have time to take a glance before the blond cadet at the second window would be smashing the glass, drawing the attention of any in the room away from the door. Whether there would be one, or ten, present who would not be distracted, would be ready with weapon aimed…

He stepped past the window, twisting his body so he could slam the door open with his left arm and shoulder, crouching slightly in case someone inside was just that wary.

The door crashed into the wall scant seconds after the window opposite smashed under the cadet's club. Merlin drove forward and slightly left, around the plank table in the middle of the room, to clear a line of sight down the hall to the front door. A woman screamed to Merlin's right; crockery smashed as she dropped it. He didn't spare a second glance; Daegal was already at her side to silence and subdue as necessary. The blond cadet hustled into the kitchen behind Merlin, crowding him slightly as an inexperienced cadet might.

Merlin reacted by moving further down the hall toward the front door, which faced east. He heard footsteps overhead, but nothing from the sitting room on the ground floor.

Which didn't, of course, mean there was no one there. No one had appeared at the sound of breaking glass or slamming doors. Yet word had surely come that troops were present in Sage Springs; even the laziest and most careless could scarcely assume an innocent kitchen accident.

He kept next to the wall down the hallway, glancing quickly up the stairs – empty so far – before crossing the doorway of the sitting-room. A shadow shifted, movement whispered; Merlin ducked as a machete clanged into the doorpost now opposite him, and took advantage of the momentary delay of metal biting into wood, driving his club upward into the pit of the man's stomach. His attacker, dressed in the simple trousers and checked shirt – half-buttoned and untucked – of a farmer, also unshod, dropped like a stone. He appeared to be alone in the room; Merlin bent swiftly to ascertain that no one was hiding behind the green horsehair sofa or the chair. A closet door opposite the stairway might conceal someone, but he figured someone hiding probably wasn't someone preparing to take the offensive.

Merlin pointed the blond boy to see to the fallen farmer, writhing and gasping on top of his own weapon. He debated briefly opening the front door to call for the others of his squad, but he expected them to be occupied searching the barn, making sure the outhouse was unoccupied, and the time that would take would be time that those overhead would have time to prepare. And ascent of the stairway was a vulnerable assault as it was. It did occur to him that he might hold his position til the rest of the company arrived, but Merlin was never one to wait for reinforcements.

Besides, if he was killed trying to gain the second floor, the others in his squad wouldn't try, and the position would be held regardless.

He wished he had his hunting knife. Or his other blades, but they were locked up along with his clothes at the barracks in Camelot.

The stair was steep, rising parallel to the hall back toward the kitchen. He guessed there was a room unseen to the left above him, and another further along toward the kitchen. Anyone attacking from that direction would have to show himself to take a decent aim – the danger lay, then, in the room overhead.

Merlin climbed swiftly, club held ready in his right hand, his left out for balance as he could not spare a glance for his feet and could afford to lose neither balance nor concentration. His ears were strained to hear past the whimpers of the woman in the kitchen, and the moaning of the farmer on the floor in the sitting room. He heard muffled voices, footsteps. Saw no one.

Saw nothing, til a man rushed to the railing and let fall a wooden ladder-backed chair. Fortunately for Merlin, the man – half-dressed as the farmer downstairs – was nervous and too scared to wait for a good look at Merlin's position before dropping the chair. As a result, Merlin was able to swing his club and knock the chair down the stairs behind him.

The blow numbed his arm to the elbow, and the club danced and jerked from its strap at his wrist, but he was at the top of the stair in an instant. He charged down the short hall to the room where the chair-thrower had retreated, betting that the speed of his rush would not allow the man to re-arm himself, would not give any others in the second room chance to aim any missiles before he was covered inside the room again.

No blades tickled his ribs from behind.

Merlin purposefully drove through the door at an angle, pushing himself against the outside wall just past the doorway to give himself extra momentum as he turned his head to scan the room for the chair-thrower.

There was a bed, rumpled blanket half on the floor, side-table, closet door ajar – machete on the floor, probably set down so the man could lift the chair with both hands – a man who didn't relish close combat.

Yet he was bending already, reaching for the machete.

Merlin left the club dangling from his wrist and instead crashed into the man from behind, his head reaching the level of the man's waist, his weight taking both of them off their feet, his impetus driving the other into the wall.

He knew immediately the man was knocked unconscious from the collision with the wall; the plaster was cracked inward like a boiled egg-shell. He released him even as he fell, and the skin on Merlin's knuckles split on the edge of the machete blade as he fumbled for his grip on the club, rolling to face the door for a possible attack from someone else from the other room.

The machete shifted on the bare floor beside him, the scrape of metal on wood sending a thrill through nerves already drawn to tautness. He glanced down; a half-size fist closed over the smooth handle of the long blade, two wide frightened eyes stared back at Merlin from under the bed. Merlin stamped down on the blade, his prone position not giving the action much force, but at the same time he lunged forward, left hand wide to grab at a handful of hair and clothing. He dragged out a boy child, eight or ten, dressed only in a nightshirt, thin and pale.

The boy grimaced in pain or fear or anger, releasing the machete to wrap his hands around Merlin's grip. Upon seeing the man's body motionless and facedown on the floor, he began to shriek, "You killed my daddy! You killed my daddy!"

Merlin made a fierce hissing noise and shook the boy to quiet him – the last thing he wanted was for anyone to believe one of their own dead. "He's not dead! He's – sleeping!" he tried to reassure the child in a hoarse whisper, but the boy continued to howl.

There was a higher-pitched cry from the half-open closet door, and a second half-size, nightgown-clad form flew out. Merlin, still half-sprawled with the boy in one hand and his club in the other, turned his head in time to glimpse the lamp-shape, to see clearly a pink rose painted on the kerosene base, to lift his elbow and duck his head slightly, and the edge of the lamp's glass shade bounced off his forehead just under the edge of his cap. It hurt, but his vision remained clear, the lamp unbroken.

The girl was a year or two younger than the boy, and didn't make another effort with the lamp clutched at her side. Her piercing wail joined his, interrupted only by her need to draw breath.

Merlin expected at any moment someone would appear in the doorway, armed and ready for a fight to the death.

No one came. Which didn't mean, of course, that there was no one else to come.

He kicked the machete out of the boy's reach and scrambled to his feet, bringing the boy around between him and the lamp-wielding girl to discourage any further blows. Blood was beginning to ooze down his forehead; he shoved the boy at the girl – his sister? – hustling both of them into the closet, then slammed the door and hooked the bedside table in front of it with his foot. It was heavy enough to hold. He hoped. He used the man's own belt to tie his hands together atop the small of his back, in case he regained consciousness while Merlin was otherwise occupied.

Gripping the club again, he hefted the machete in his left hand, turning it a quarter so he could hit with the flat rather than the edge of the blade. The children in the closet were already banging on the door, their hollering only slightly muffled. The man on the floor didn't move.

Merlin ducked a quick glance out the door, enough to see there was no one on the landing or the top half of the stairs. He moved into the narrow passage, club and machete both raised, ready to knock any further projectiles out of the air.

Half a head with a shock of shaggy brown hair shot into Merlin's view at the other end of the passage, from the second room's doorway, and dodged back just as fast. Merlin leaned into the wall to present a narrower target, and waited for a moment.

Bang, bang on the closet door. Not much noise from downstairs.

Two men shuffled into the passageway. The man in front was fully dressed in dirty and wrinkled clothes, face lumpy with bruises behind longish dark brown hair, one eye swollen shut and a white bandage tied around the lower half of his face as a gag. His hands were tied together at his belt buckle, another rope drew his elbows together behind his back, and the two steps he stumbled forward made Merlin believe he hadn't stood on his feet all night, if not longer.

The lighter-haired man behind him was using him as a shield, shoving him forward mainly chest-to-back, as he held a blade to the captive's throat in one hand. The other drew back and snapped forward with a thrown blade.

Merlin moved the club with no other thought than to provide what shield it could, maybe hit the spinning knife enough to throw its revolution off a killing – or severely injuring – aim. He was as surprised as the other when the blade stuck, quivering, halfway down the club's length, hilt pointing back at the thrower, but he'd never show it. Let the attacker think his skill was such, he'd meant to catch the knife just so.

He dropped the machete and wrenched the throwing knife free with his left hand – handier in the cramped space of the passage than the larger blade – in the time it took the other to shift the second blade to his right hand.

"You throw it, you hit the gov'ment man," the captor threatened, peering out from behind the other's neck in a way that was almost comical.

"You throw yours, you're unarmed," Merlin returned.

Bang, bang. The closet door still held.

"You Sweetman clan?" the man asked.

Merlin assumed the man wanted to know if he was one of his feudal enemies. He assumed the man would recognize his allies, and also that he hadn't yet set eyes on the cadet troops; he wouldn't mistake Merlin's uniform if he had.

"Cadet," he answered.

"Peacemaker," the other grunted. "Didn't ask for no peacemakers to come into our bus'ness." He paused, and Merlin didn't immediately respond.

The man in front was surely Agent Lancelot, sent months ago, and not heard from. Keeping him prisoner in an outlying farmhouse was a good way of keeping him from interfering in the feud, but surely the combatants would have guessed that an agent would have rated a rescue, at least. And this man's safety was the most important objective that Merlin's unit had. Not that the mission meant much to him, as such.

"I didn't ask to come, either," he said finally. "I always aim to let a man get his own revenge. But killing gets you nothing but more trouble. And killing me gets you even less. They brought a hundred and twenty of us – how long do you think you can hold out against them? And if you kill your hostage –"

"Like you killed Staney?" the other accused, gulping a little. "And Tray, and Wandy downstairs? Can hear the little ones; at least you draw your line somewhere."

"I haven't killed anyone," Merlin said, calm but still poised for action. "You can check. Only knocked them out."

Disbelief showed on the glimpses he had of the man's face. "You're gonna arrest us, take us back to jail in a big city somewhere, leave the children to be raised by neighbors or fostered to the gov'ment?" The tone turned sly. "Like yourself?"

"Not my decision," Merlin said, unmoved. "Some will be arrested. The goal is peace, an end to feuding, folks back at their trade without fear."

"Sweetman clan killed our sister, and stole her husband's herd," the other spat. "Ain't no peace til they _pay_!"

Merlin hissed a breath through his teeth in dissatisfaction. Should be anyone but him trying to talk the agent free. Didn't his beliefs, his experiences, put him on this man's side? And yet how ludicrously out of hand it had gotten since the initial incident, long forgotten – perpetrator and victim both likely beyond caring any longer?

Wasn't he beyond caring, too? His revenge was accomplished…

Talk would keep them all there, til the unit attacked from all sides. They'd meet no resistance, anymore, and occupy the property swiftly. Lance-Corporal Daegal would report on the situation; the captain, the lieutenants, and corporals would fill the stairway – and the agent would still be a human shield. Or til the two children managed to knock over the bed table and escape from the closet. They could charge into the hallway or stop to untie their father; either way the man holding the hostage was likely to take the opportunity to fight again, and Merlin would be forced to hurt either man, or kill them, or be killed. And there was the agent, and the two children, in the middle of it.

He didn't have time to talk, then, even if he'd been so gifted. Or so inclined. His options were to attack or bluff. He didn't know enough of the other man to guess if a bluff would be called, or believed. Waste of time, then.

Merlin took a step forward. There wasn't much room in the passageway to maneuver. But what did that matter, anyway? His life was worth little, anymore. The agent was surely more valuable.

"You take another step, I'll slit his throat," the rebel threatened.

"We stand here much longer, that closet door won't hold," Merlin answered. "You think that government man means as much to me as those children mean to you?" He took another step. "You ever kill a man, yourself?"

One of Merlin's squad interrupted from the foot of the stairs. "Sir, the rest of the platoon is coming."

The other man shifted his weight. The agent squinted out of one good eye and looked ready to collapse.

Merlin shrugged, lowering the club and unwrapping three fingers from the knife hilt to show the man he had no intention of using it. "Guess you can talk to the captain about it," he said. "Me, I'm going back downstairs."

He moved forward, which crowded the local and the agent into the corner of the passage and the doorway of the second bedroom. Would he bet the man wouldn't throw the knife at his back as he descended? It wouldn't achieve much for him, might work against him when more troops arrived, but would he bet on the other realizing that and acting sensibly? The blood oozing down through his eyebrow tickled annoyingly. Merlin stepped from the passageway to the tiny landing at the top of the stairs, keeping his body facing the other two.

At that moment the agent, maybe deciding to take his chances rather than wait through another negotiation attempt with the approaching captain, wrenched himself suddenly from his captor's grip, took one long step down the passage just vacated by Merlin and dove forward, twisting to land on side and shoulder.

The local half-bent, trying to clutch belatedly at his escaping captive, then twisted to face Merlin's reactive lunge. Merlin dropped his knife to grab at the man's knife-hand wrist, to limit and partially control the man's use of the blade. And for the second time that hour he and another crashed to the ground, through the doorway of the second bedroom.

It occurred to him as they fell that he was as good as dead if there was anyone else waiting, hiding in the room. But as he grappled with the man for control of the one remaining blade, no boots rushed another assailant into the fray, no other weapons came hurtling from the interior of the room.

The man fought, and strongly, but it was only moments before Merlin had possession of the knife – he forced the other facedown on the floor, the tip of the blade against the base of his skull, one arm twisted behind his back, pulled across his body by Merlin's other hand.

The agent staggered into the doorway, having somehow gained his feet with his hands and arms still bound. The banging from the other upstairs room had ceased, though the crying continued. Whether they had broken out of the closet or had given up trying, the children didn't come down the passage. Merlin was glad; he had enough of a headache as it was.

"Here," he offered, raising the knife from the local's neck and gesturing to the agent. He leaned down to allow Merlin to slice through the ropes, freeing his hands, and then his elbows. Merlin stuck the knife into the floorboard and used the pieces to bind the rebel's hands securely, though not tightly.

The agent dragged the gag from his mouth, and rubbed his wrists and stretched his arms. "Nice," he croaked, worked some spit around in his mouth, and tried again, "Nice to meet you. My name's Lancelot."

Merlin looked at him, bruised and long-haired, scruffy beard that looked weeks old, and snorted. "Mine's Merlin."

The other nodded in thanks, breaking into a coughing spell. Merlin shrugged the blood from his forehead onto the shoulder of his hunting shirt, and shifted so he could pull the rebel to his feet as he stood himself.

"Can you manage the stairs without help?" he said, bending to yank the blade from the floorboard.

Lancelot said, "If I have to."

The bound local cursed mildly; Merlin herded him out to the stairs behind the agent.

"Lance-Corporal!" Merlin shouted. "One agent and one captive coming down."

Daegal appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "We have these two secured, sir," he reported. For a moment he stared blankly at the broken chair sprawled on the steps, then dragged it out of Lancelot's way. "Jonesy and Marshall found two others in the barn, and the other squads are fifty yards off and coming in. Lenny is going to meet them."

Merlin watched Lancelot and the local halfway down the stairs, then returned to the front bedroom, retrieving the rebel's second knife as well as the dropped machete. His other captive, bits of plaster clinging to his hair, struggled groggily on his side. Merlin stuck the two knives through his belt at either hip, and the machete at the small of his back, then yanked the father to his feet.

"For your children's sake, keep walking," he ordered tersely, giving the man a shove toward the door. He moved the table away from the closet door and opened it to discover the boy and girl huddled on the floor, tears still making tracks down both faces, lamp lying discarded on its side. Merlin snapped his fingers to get their attention, but received only a glare from the boy.

Sighing, he reached in and picked the girl up bodily, slinging her over his shoulder in spite of outraged shrieks from both. He grabbed the boy as he had done before, by the back of the collar of his nightshirt, and lifted him out of the closet onto his feet, in time to see the father swing unsteadily around, hands still tied behind his back.

"Walk," Merlin commanded him. The little girl beat her fists against the still-tender lashes under his shirt; he was in no mood to prolong the experience, and used the boy to shove the father out the door, down the hall. He hurried them down the stairs, half-carrying the boy by his fistful of clothing when he stumbled on the steep steps.

Two of the cadets Merlin had left outside were in the sitting room, guarding four locals, tied and seated on the floor. The woman from the kitchen straightened in the green horsehair chair as the two children, released from Merlin's grasp, ran to her for protection and comfort. Merlin left the house, the cadets, the prisoner, and the weapons in the hands of the young lance-corporal, and stepped out the front door to the porch.

The other troops were close enough to recognize faces, the pickpocket sent to notify the officers of the situation. They stepped out of trampled fields into the farmyard; Merlin snorted at the bemused expression on the face of Captain Nathlan, mounted and safely behind the row of advancing cadets.

He turned away from them, around the corner of the farmhouse, and headed back down the hedgerow to the little hollow where his squad had left their coats and packs, stepping neatly through the gap made in the closing noose of cadets by the absence of his squad.

Merlin was tempted to stay in the quiet little hollow – listening to the conversation of the birds, smelling early-morning spring in the country – or better yet, to keep walking. Coming-of-age birthdays were ignored in the field, however, and it would be considered desertion, which had penalties. Which was neither here nor there to him, but he didn't care to go on the run again, and had no destination to interest him beyond a shrug.

So he heaved his pack to his back and collected and carried the equipment for the rest of the squad. He dropped down on the east porch to one side of the jumble of packs he'd deposited and watched the red-faced captain pace furiously from one side of the farmyard to the other.

Daegal stood stock-still, straight and tall, his ears red from embarrassment also. His eyes flicked once to Merlin, but to his credit, the lance-corporal remained silent. Captain Nathlan was livid, that much could be seen for twenty yards.

Merlin took a certain perverse pleasure in noting that he'd been embarrassed by the very lowest of junior officers, a lance-corporal who'd taken with five cadets the farmhouse that he'd assigned a thirty-member unit to take, and only minutes before he'd ridden up. And to top it off, this particular farmhouse happened to be the location where the missing agent was being held. So although he clearly wished to punish Lance-Corporal Daegal for disobeying orders, Merlin guessed he was going to be forced to publically congratulate and probably promote the boy instead.

As he pushed to his feet, Agent Lancelot and two cadets from another squad stepped out the front door.

"Merlin," Lancelot acknowledged him, squinting into the rising sun at the pacing captain. Merlin noticed they'd found a change of clothes for the agent, though they were rough farmer's clothes. He'd washed as well; his dark hair was wet and slicked back from his face, making the bruises more noticeable. Lancelot nodded toward the captain, who hadn't noticed him, yet. "What's going on? Is that your captain?"

"Idiot," Merlin growled.

Under the bruises, Lancelot's face twisted in a wry grin. "Don't pull your punches, kid. Tell me what you really think." Merlin glanced aside in time to catch the agent raising an eyebrow as he reached to touch the small rips in the right sleeve of Merlin's uniform coat, marks of a removed patch of rank. "Or maybe you told him what you really think?"

Merlin didn't answer, turned and sauntered toward the captain and the young lance-corporal.

Captain Nathlan was an egg-shaped man whose lower legs looked too skinny in the spatter-dashes to hold the bulk of his body. After almost a month of mishaps, contradictory orders, and mismanaged troops, Merlin was convinced the captain commanded cadet troops because the standing army wouldn't have him, and his pride in the uniform and rank of captain was not quite genuine enough to cover the bitterness over that rejection. He was a man, it seemed to Merlin, out to punish every offense and every infraction, no matter how small, real, or imagined. He covered his own ineptitude by punishing cadets and junior officers when things went wrong.

The captain turned at Merlin's step. Merlin sketched a barely-acceptable salute, stood not-quite at attention. His appearance, he knew, would serve to take Nathlan's fury off Daegal.

"You!" Nathlan snarled. He looked at red-eared Daegal, then back at Merlin; even though he had a hundred men under his command, he had demonstrated more than once that he didn't care to remember which cadets were assigned to which junior officers, and hadn't connected Merlin with Daegal until now. "I should've guessed you were responsible."

There was an eager look in his beady eyes, and relief. Merlin could almost read his thoughts – a gladness that there would be a legitimate target for his ire. He heard two or three others join them from behind; he didn't turn, but the captain drew himself up and pressed his puffy lips together.

"Agent," he said shortly.

"Captain." Lancelot's voice, just respectful enough. An agent was outside the military hierarchy without specific orders, so he had no control over Nathlan's command, but Nathlan in turn had no say in the agent's decisions. "My thanks for the assistance of your troops."

"Our pleasure, Agent Lancelot. I was just congratulating our young lance-corporal here on his initiative, and a mission well-accomplished." Only Daegal's dark eyes, darting wide from the agent to the captain to Merlin, betrayed the questionable veracity of the statement.

Merlin heard a note of irony in the agent's voice as he reached to shake the boy's hand. "My thanks to you personally, then, son," he said.

"But, sir, I didn't –" Daegal began to protest.

"Dis-missed!" Nathlan barked loudly, and the young man reacted as trained, snapping to a salute before marching around Merlin and the agent to the farmhouse to rejoin his squad. "Cadet," Nathlan gritted through his teeth to Merlin. "I'll deal with your insubordination later."

"But, Captain," Agent Lancelot said. "Maybe you didn't realize –"

"Skip it," Merlin said to the agent as he turned without saluting his senior officer. "Waste of breath."


	2. Camelot

**Chapter 2: Camelot**

It was a three-day march back to Camelot, but the company made it in two and a half. The cadets grumbled the first day, but were too exhausted after that to waste the effort on speech. The three lieutenants, on horseback, didn't seem to notice the quickened pace, or if they did, they didn't protest in front of the cadets.

"Since our company rescued Agent Lancelot," Lance-Corporal Daegal reported apologetically to Merlin's squad when they'd made camp for the night. "I guess the captain wants a parade of triumph when we reach Camelot, and –"

"He's eager for the crowd to be cheering him," the pickpocket interrupted disgustedly. "Bet your horse he'll be clean and all his brass shined, riding at the head of the column with the agent, and we'll be dusty and tired-out like we fought a great war."

The blond cadet grunted and spoke up sarcastically, "You don't think they'll stop at a stream or a river to let us wash up first?"

"It could be worse," Daegal offered. "We could be detailed to stay in Sage Springs like Second Company."

No one answered him. Merlin left the others at their tiny roadside campfire, to roll himself in his blanket. He faced the darkness away from the sixty-or-so fires and began to count, to picture each number in his mind. That helped to crowd out any other thoughts before weariness overcame him.

Before he got to twenty, though, he heard boots on the packed dirt road and the agent's voice hailed his squad. He didn't turn over or open his eyes. Rustle of cloth; Merlin guessed Lancelot had crouched near him, somewhere close but still behind him.

"You asleep?" the agent asked softly. Merlin didn't answer. "I finally placed where I'd heard your name before," Lancelot continued. "About six months ago, from a friend of mine in the agency. Named Arthur?"

Merlin drew in a breath and swore with his exhalation.

Lancelot chuckled. "It's been a busy couple of months," he continued in a musing tone. "There's quite a report to make when we reach the capital. Uther will have to appoint a judge for Sage Springs; it'll be a month or so before your other company returns."

"Go away," Merlin said tiredly.

"Good to hear the military hasn't made an officer and a gentleman out of you," Lancelot said, amusement in his voice. Merlin felt a finger touch his shoulder in the darkness; his eyes flew open and he tensed, but made no movement as the agent poked briefly at the tears in his sleeve removing the lance-corporal's patch had made. "Though not for lack of trying, I see."

Merlin counted to three, then flopped to his back with a sigh. "What do you want?" he demanded.

Instead of answering, the agent gestured to the inch-long scab at Merlin's hairline. "You okay?" he asked. "How'd that happen?"

Merlin snorted, looking past the compassion on Lancelot's face to the stars. "Girl with a lamp," he said in disgust. "Didn't even break the lamp. I'm fine." Except for the splitting headache, he was fine. Except for his aching feet and sore legs, he was fine.

"I noticed you weren't allowed off your feet today," Lancelot continued. He shifted so the firelight reflected from his dark eyes as he studied Merlin. "They had you standing to attention every break we took, standing to eat your meals." He paused, but Merlin didn't respond. "Was that a punishment for yesterday?"  
>Merlin felt a grimace twist his lips. The agent had come because he felt guilty over Merlin's circumstances. "That's the military for you," he said.<p>

Lancelot nodded, grinning also. "Never mind that you almost single-handedly captured your target and freed me." Merlin closed his eyes and rolled away, back to the darkness. "Anyway," he heard the agent say, with humor still in his tone, "in spite of the fact that your hostage negotiation tactics need a lot of work, I wanted to thank you for – for not getting me killed."

"Better luck next time," Merlin answered without opening his eyes.

Lancelot chuckled, not taking offense. Merlin heard him rise, speak again to his squad members at the fire, then walk away, back to the tent he shared with the senior officers.

Merlin began to count again, forcing the images of each successive number over the memories of Sage Springs.

The rage and frustration of the captured, denied whatever revenge they'd decided would make them equal with their enemies, regardless of the fact that neither side had felt equal or fair for almost three generations. The hate that was repeated by the tiniest lisping child against it's parents' neighbors. The complete lack of authority to judge whether the various vengeances were justified or merited. And the denial of the one authority, the agent sent to help them find their way to settlement and peace.

He reached one hundred and kept counting.

No need to worry about nightmares anymore; though he still dreamed of his family, he dreamed of them living, not dead. There was, however, still too much time and opportunity for thought, and the inevitable overwhelming emptiness, as though he'd been hollowed like a gourd. There was no desire for anything; were it not for the strict regulation of daily activities imposed by the corps, he felt he might sit and stare as days passed and he simply faded away. Or else his feet, once started, might continue on like a child's wind-up toy, over hill and down vale, til he tipped over somewhere and ceased to exist.

Two hundred.

Recognizing the emptiness tempted contemplation of the lack of hate and revenge he'd spent the last three years deliberately filling himself with. That brought thoughts of the murderer, an emotionless picture of a lifeless body swaying in an icy night breeze.

At two hundred fifty-one Merlin's memory betrayed him with the words of the last letter he'd received from Emmett's Creek before marching north from Camelot, words written neatly and evenly, spelling impeccable. _Sincerely, Gaius_, was the closing, but Merlin knew the physician had dictated to Freya by the handwriting. Had it been awkward for her to write, _Percy and Shasta miss you, and Freya as well. We all hope that a freight driver will soon bring us your reply to our letters…_ Not many letters were written in the cadet barracks. None of them had anyone to write to; if they'd had someone, they wouldn't have been placed in Uther's service.

Merlin forced his mind back to two hundred fifty-two. _Dear Gaius_, he'd written. _Keeping pretty busy these days. Sorry to hear you're still looking for a reeve. Tell Gwen congratulations. Say hello to Alice for me, and Elyan, and tell Shasta the barracks kitchen doesn't hold a candle to hers. Tell Percy I'll be in for a drink as soon as I'm out of uniform. Tell Freya_… And he'd crumpled the paper for the waste bin.

Two hundred fifty-three, then. And numbers, and numbers. Don't think of words, of letters. And don't think of faces.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya woke with no expectation that the day would be any different from the previous six days.

She woke early, as she always did, but this morning she anticipated the rumble and bustle outside her window, even in this quiet residential district of the capital, and she wasn't disconcerted by the big-city noise. She lay in the generously-sized bed, watching the dimness in the room fade to the glow of morning and knew she'd have to rise soon. Gwen might say the word _guest_ all she liked, but Freya knew her friend, knew Gwen wasn't feeling that well this week, and whatever hand she could give with the housework would be appreciated.

She felt a pang of homesickness, entering Gwen's kitchen and beginning to help with the few preparations, not even needing to ask questions, after working for years with Gwen in Percy's tavern. Would she ever wake without thinking of her friends in the tavern in Emmett's Creek? Would she see them again someday? Would she grow to call her new home _home_, as naturally as Percy's Place came to mind?

But it was nice to put on a new dress, nice to listen to conversations all around her in anonymity. Nice to receive the smiles and politeness of strangers on every hand, who didn't know her past, and didn't care.

Gwen gave her a quick wan smile of greeting and acknowledgement. "Good morning."

"Still not feeling well?" Freya asked.

"I think it's the season," Gwen answered. "I always feel a bit off in the spring."

And the city, Freya guessed. Though Gwen loved her new house and the excitement of the capital – loved her new husband too, with an openness that was a bit embarrassing for Freya to witness – Agent Arthur so vulnerable with his affection and pleasure shining in his eyes.

"If you asked him, I'm sure Gaius would –"

"No, I'll be all right," Gwen shrugged off the suggestion with a quick smile. "The biscuits are done, come sit down."

"Where is Gaius this morning?" Freya asked, taking the seat next to her friend in the neat kitchen.

"He went out early, but he said he'd be back for the noon meal."

Freya hid her wince. It had been generous of Arthur and Gwen to invite them to stay, when they arrived in Camelot, when the two had not been married half a year, yet. She and Gwen had enjoyed a renewal of their friendship, and Arthur rather liked Gaius' company, but… they had not expected to stay this long. And still longer, it seemed.

Gaius was busy all day, busy searching out the medicines he needed to replenish his stores, busy at the library with medical journals, or in conversation with fellow physicians, busy consulting and assisting at the big hospital in the north quarter of the city. Gwen appreciated her help, but Freya knew, when she wasn't feeling well, she didn't want to entertain even helpful company.

So she'd gone with Gaius, the last two days, returning in the evening exhausted from walking and waiting. The library had been interesting, though not enough to tempt her away from Gwen's house on her own.

The cadet barracks had been disappointing.

And every day that passed with more waiting she sensed Gaius' growing impatience to return to Emmett's Creek, his own practice and his own wife. She'd sensed a wish from Gwen – and more strongly from Arthur – to reclaim her home from the presence of company and be the two of them together, though neither would ever say it. Twice she had almost suggested that she and Gaius simply return to the Creek.

"And Arthur?" Freya asked. To the agent's face she used his title, but Gwen had made such a face over it, when it was just the two of them, she made an effort to use only the man's given name with his wife.

Wife. Goodness.

"They're working on some issue that's come up in some city out east." Gwen waved her hand in unconcerned ignorance. "Something to do with taxes, or tolls, or whatever. Arthur thinks he may be sent to deal with the problem."

Oh. Freya swallowed the last of her biscuit with honey. And here they were, intruding on what might be the couples' last few days of privacy without even the courtesy of a thorough explanation. "How long does he think he'll be gone?"

Gwen rolled her dark eyes, picking her biscuit apart on her plate. "A few days, a few months… they never know for sure."

_How long – they never know for sure_. Freya thought about the past, and the future. The people she knew and the people she would soon meet, the people she was trying to avoid meeting, heading east as well… maybe. She was nervous about the changes Shasta and Gaius had helped her decide to make – though Gwen had made the same changes, and seemed to be happy with them.

She was nervous about the acceptance of her new family, in the absence of a reply to her letter. She was nervous, if she was honest with herself, about seeing Merlin again.

They'd written him every month, and waited in vain for a reply. Her worst fears had been laid to rest by the commander's clerk, who shuffled his records and informed them that Merlin's name was definitely still on the list, but his unit was assigned away from the city for a time. An undetermined time.

So they waited, and Gaius grew impatient, and Freya grew more nervous.

Gwen didn't feel like rising to do any housework, so they sat by the little table in the kitchen, drinking tea and picking over their biscuits, for a couple of hours, in casual conversation. Mostly about Camelot – and Arthur – though Gwen was sensitive to the fact that Freya was sensitive about the whole topic of marriage.

Both of them were surprised to hear hurried footsteps on the outside stairs, and Freya started to her feet. Gaius said noon, and it still lacked an hour for that, by the little clock on the mantel. Regardless, it was the old physician that burst into the sitting room, grinning like a boy, hat shoved back and eyes twinkling.

"Get your hats, ladies," he said breezily. "Have you ever seen a parade?"

Freya ducked back into the guest bedroom long enough to snatch the plain straw hat she wore over her traveling cap, hearing Gwen excuse herself from joining them. "Are you sure?" she asked her friend, taking a few seconds to clear the dishes from the table.

"I think I'll lay down for a bit," Gwen said, giving her a nod meant to be confident. "You go, and have fun."

Freya followed Gaius out into the city at a quick pace. One thing she'd been surprised to learn about big cities was the constant battle to keep things clean – or maybe it was that folk tended to notice and care more. She would have guessed a little town like Emmett's Creek to be dustier, on the whole, but after only a few days in the capital, she'd gone back to wearing a traveling cap every day as a matter of course to keep the dust out of her hair, as every woman did. The linen kerchief held to mouth and nose helped to filter the dust, as well as the smells. It had never seemed to bother Gaius before, and didn't this day, either.

As they passed from street to street, making their way to the north gate, as far as she could tell, she noticed more and more of the city's residents heading the same direction with a comprehensive air of excitement, even to the point of closing shops or carrying children well able to walk, to hurry them along. Gaius reached back and took hold of her hand to guide her through the thickening press of bodies.

"A messenger came to Uther's courtyard this morning," he threw over his shoulder by way of explanation. "One of the cadet units is marching in today from Sage Springs, up north. They've recovered their missing agent, it seems." Arthur hadn't been able to learn much about Merlin's unit, but he had gotten information on location and mission objectives.

Gaius led her through a crowd that drew ever tighter, closer to the curb of the street just two blocks from the north gate – she could see the top of the guard towers from where they stood. Gaius managed to wedge the two of them in the second row of spectators leaning eagerly out to glimpse the troops rumored to be returning soon.

"We'll have to go to the barracks, or the agents' headquarters this afternoon for news. Maybe the rest of the units won't be far behind this one, if Merlin doesn't return today."

"Gaius." Freya pulled on his hand to get his attention. "I know we've been away from the Creek longer than we expected –" Gaius made a negligent sound, but she squeezed his hand again and said, "Thank you." He patted her hand without answering, just smiled and turned his gaze down the street.

A rustle of whispers flowed through the crowd, followed by scattered cries of, "They're coming! There they are!"

It was hard not to catch the air of anticipation and excitement. Freya saw people across the street waving hats or kerchiefs before she actually saw any of the soldiers, but the clatter of the officers' horses' hooves and the stomp-shuffle of one hundred marching shoes quickly grew audible above the cheering.

There were two men riding at the head of the column, an egg-shaped middle-aged man on a pure white gelding with shiny buttons on his coat and an ostentatious feather in his hat, waving condescendingly to folks on either side, smiling like a cat in cream. The other was dressed like a country farmer, longish hair showing below his wide-brimmed hat, slouched in the saddle as if tired or hurting or both, doing his best to ignore, or rather tolerate, the noise of the crowd.

"That's probably the agent," Gaius said to Freya beside him, even as she was wondering about the man's lack of uniform.

The riding officers passed quickly, and Freya's attention turned to the marching cadets. She drew breath in swiftly.

"But – they're so young!" she said, mostly to herself.

Gaius heard and half-turned at her comment. "The cadets serving as an alternative to prison are a minority. Most are orphan boys between fifteen and eighteen."

Freya watched the rows march past, stomp-shuffle. Each wore a wheat-colored knit cap, long trousers and hunting shirt beneath jackets with rows of shiny brass buttons. Their uniforms were dusty, shin-guards muddy, some even torn, more than a few blood-stained. Their bodies bent forward under the weight of a square brown pack hung by two shoulder-straps, and exhaustion – stomp-shuffle. Clubs swung from their belts by a leather strap through a hole drilled in the grip, banged against marching thighs and knees.

"Not many casualties," Gaius commented. Freya looked at him; his eyes flicked over the rows in a calculating way, maybe he was counting the troops. "Unless they've reorganized their units to hide the losses," he added.

Freya's attention was caught by one boy, marching in the middle of a unit, surrounded by fellow cadets. He was indistinguishable from the others except for a smear of dried blood across his forehead, down his temple, and a limp noticeable in spite of the marching pace; he looked pale and gaunt, like most of the others.

"Gaius!" she said. "Is that him?"  
>"Where?"<p>

The cadet in question was passing, was past. "Him," she said, pointing.

Gaius watched the cadets, his eyes darting from one to the next, never catching on one in familiarity. He shook his head, lips pressing together.

"Not that I could see," he answered her. "But it's not impossible it was him. We'll go to the cadet barracks this afternoon. I'm sure they'll be happy for a volunteer physician to help examine and treat field-dressed wounds."

They watched the rest of the unit march past without saying more, and without cheering as most of the other spectators did. Freya was a little disconcerted; she would have thought herself well able to pick him out, even in uniform among others in uniform. But they all looked so young – not yet eighteen, Gaius had said. She wondered if Merlin felt lonely, or isolated, surrounded by boys so much younger than himself. She wondered if his life had been easy, or hard, these last six months.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The second day of marching back to Camelot was the worst.

It was pride and sheer stubbornness that kept Merlin on his feet and at attention while the rest of the cadets and the officers took their rest, lounging on the long spring grass, standing in line at the hastily-erected cook's tent. He could feel himself swaying at times, when his vision would go white and blurry around the edges. But there was never a moment when he wasn't being watched by dozens of eyes – cadet, officer, and agent. It wasn't that he cared what they thought, or that he feared another punishment if he didn't abide by the strictures of this one. It wasn't that he cared about following orders, and bolstering Nathlan's command by obedience was nowhere near a concern.

If Nathlan thought he'd finally break him, wear him down, cause him to collapse or refuse orders where everyone would think it was because he couldn't take any more, the captain had another think coming.

No one had remarked on it, likely because no one knew, but Merlin's eighteenth birthday had come and gone. He was free – technically speaking, the emancipation ceremony was a formality rather than a legality – to walk away, instead of pushing himself to remain upright and at attention, to keep marching in step without faltering.

So why did he do it?

If he did it as a free choice, then it wasn't a punishment, really, and Nathlan could put that in his pipe and smoke it. This form of punishment was just as asinine as his other orders throughout the campaign.

The night was a blur of oblivion. Merlin barely remembered eating anything before falling, almost literally, into a dead sleep, but made up for that lack, taking an extra biscuit from the tray by the cook's elbow as he limped through the breakfast line.

As distracted as he was by the fatigue in his muscles and the pounding in his head, he'd been watching the countryside and guessed they'd arrive in Camelot just before midday, and be back in their barracks for a noon meal. Likely the officers would retire to their quarters, leaving the cadets to clean themselves, their clothing, and equipment, on their own that afternoon.

"Take my shoes, sir," Lance-Corporal Daegal said. He was finished with the cold ham and biscuits that served as their breakfast, while Merlin was still wolfing his extra helping down.

Merlin ignored him.

"Shoes are cheap-made, for sure," the pickpocket remarked, studying the worn soles of his own footwear. "Bad luck yours seem to be the worst of this lot."

The lance-corporal began to unlace his left shoe. Merlin paid no attention, licked his fingers free of crumbs, and pushed himself to his feet, strapping pack and club back into place. He filled his lungs, clenched his teeth, and stood to attention.

"You could change shoes, sir," the blond cadet offered. "Put the left one on your right foot, the right on your left. Might help ease the soreness some, if you won't take any of our shoes."

Merlin didn't move, didn't give any sign that he'd heard. It was true the shoes made for the cadets were straight-last, and could be used for either foot, but it made no sense to him to switch shoes. The sole of the shoe on his left foot had shifted during their weeks in Sage Springs, as the leather had seen lots of hard use and soaking from early-morning dews and crossed streams. One of the nails in the sole had slowly been exposed to Merlin's foot. The lack of rest and the constant pressure of his weight for the entirety of the past two days had lamed him considerably, to the point where he couldn't hide it any more.

But if he switched the bad shoe to his good foot, he risked lameness in that foot as well. And why would he hand it to one of the others, for them to endure their last morning on the road?

He heard one of the other cadets mutter, "Stubborn cuss, ain't he?" to his companion in a tone of near admiration. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the agent pass them on horseback, tip his hat in Merlin's direction.

It was a warm morning, even for late spring, but Merlin noticed little beyond the back of the cadet's head in front of him. He had a mental picture of himself falling, collapsing, tripping the cadet who marched behind him, who'd trip the boy behind him, and so on to the end of the column. Likely the blame for that would fall on him, too.

Or maybe they'd just trample him into the dust and leave him behind.

Above the heads bobbing in step, matching knit caps making differentiation from the back impossible, Merlin caught glimpses of the gate-towers of Camelot. Over the faint buzz constant in his ears since they'd begun marching that morning, he thought he caught snatches of cheering, and wondered if it was something the others could hear, too.

As they entered Camelot and he saw folk lining the street four and five deep, he thought sardonically to himself that Nathlan had probably sent runners to spread the news of their return, so he could make a grand entry. Many were leaning out of upper-floor windows, waving scarves, kerchiefs, and all were cheering and hallooing, even the children.

It was the closest Merlin came to walking away from the whole thing since they had been ordered north. He kept his eyes forward and gritted the dust in his teeth, counting his limping, shuffle-stomp footsteps. How many til they reached the barracks? Would he be able to keep upright til then? Blood pounded in his head in time to the pounding steps.

And then he began hallucinating. It was the only explanation he could think of.

Merlin caught a glimpse of a girl in a dark blue or black dress, neat straw hat set atop a hair-covering white cap, not far back in the crowd yet not in the front row, her face in profile as she spoke to her companion. For one second he was convinced it was Freya – then he mentally shrugged and told himself it wouldn't be that strange for an unknown Camelot girl to remind him of – but her companion was clearly Gaius the physician of Emmett's Creek.

He was hallucinating.

Merlin turned his eyes to the back of the head of the cadet in front of him, and concentrated on staying upright and conscious. Stomp-shuffle, limp, march. The cheering grew deafening to him in his near-stupor, no words readily distinguishable. The cadet next to him spoke to him, but he didn't understand the words, and didn't look aside to ask him to repeat. Soon the barracks, and then he could surrender to the oblivion.

It was restorative, welcoming. If the same warm lassitude that the oblivion of exhaustion brought could be found in alcohol, Merlin believed he might be halfway tempted to slip into more or less permanent drunkenness.

As it was, his sleep was interrupted too soon by one of the runners, the orphans too young to go on missions employed sometimes for messengers between lessons and training.

"Merlin!" he heard from somewhere beyond the fog. "Anybody know where the one called Merlin's at?"

Low murmur followed as several other cadets gave direction to point him out.

Shrill young voice, entirely too close. "You Merlin?"

His eyes opened on the second attempt, and focused in spite of his reluctance on the trouser-legs and bare feet of the boy next to his bunk. He shifted, letting his arm flop over the edge of the bunk, swing once, and fastened his fingers around a handful of the boy's shirtfront. He yanked him close, forcing him to bend slightly. Wide brown eyes and round cheek came into his view.

"Keep. Your. Voice. Down," Merlin told him, emphasizing each word.

The boy ducked his head in a quick nod. "You're Merlin?" he whispered.

"What's the message?" he said tiredly, releasing the boy to use his hand to rub his eyes, his face. His fingers brushed the still-healing split at his hairline, and he winced involuntarily. The boy moved back as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk, ducking his head to avoid cracking it on the one above him.

"They been getting the reports in from the junior officers, and updating records since you all came in this morning," the boy told him. "They got three of you all turned eighteen while you were gone. They're gonna do the ceremonies this afternoon."

"When?" Merlin had bypassed the laundry and the sick room in favor of collapsing on his bunk. His pack lay untouched where he'd slung it against the wall. He noticed that the blond cadet and the pickpocket from his squad had come closer to listen.

"Less than half an hour," the boy said. Merlin raised his head to scowl at the news and the boy, backing away further and bumping into the next bunk, said, half-defiantly and half-apologetically, "You're the last one I could find."

"You want my shoes now?" the pickpocket drawled, grinning. "Mine are clean now, at least."

"I've got an extra clean shirt you can borrow," the blond cadet offered.

Merlin rose and pushed his way through the gathered cadets, stalked down the aisle between the rows of bunks. Shouts went ahead of him, and before he left the room it seemed everyone knew he was leaving the corps. Catcalls and congratulations, abuse and encouragement alike met him at the doorway; he gritted his teeth at the seventh hearty back-slap, stepped over the third attempt to trip him, and made his way down the stairs to the first floor.

He detoured to a side-courtyard off the training square where a pair of pumps served a long narrow trough used for washing. He wasn't alone at the trough – no one was ever alone at the barracks – but no one paid him much attention as he scrubbed his hands to the elbow and splashed water over head and face. Drying himself on a dingy communal towel, he limped back into the brick barracks and down the long hallway to the clerk's office and chamber.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

After a quick stop for a cold lunch at a small but neat tavern, Gaius and Freya arrived at the cadet barracks to volunteer services for the returning troops. As no volunteer was ever turned away, they then spent several hours in a small side room where wounds were treated and illnesses diagnosed.

A dispensary and an infirmary were accessible through doors on either side. The regular physician, a thin wiry man whose dark hair was cut as short as the cadets' and whose black eyes carried dark bags beneath them, was glad to see them. He oriented Gaius and Freya to locations of supplies in clipped sentences while the young girl in white cap and apron who was his assistant silently went about her own work.

They washed and bandaged, mostly, smearing cream on deep bruises and open blisters. Not many cuts needed stitching, anymore, though they did inspect one or two minor 'surgeries' that had been performed by junior officers or fellow cadets in the field.

The first cadet Gaius tended, Freya at his side to supply clean water, sponges and bandages, was a fifteen-year-old who looked eleven at most, with wide blue eyes, an easy grin, and a wrist he thought might be broken. Gaius took the boy's hand and gently turned it this way and that, fingering the bones in the swollen, discolored wrist as he did.

"Well, my boy, probably just a sprain," he decided. Binding it firmly and giving him simple instructions for care during healing, Gaius added casually, "Say, we're here to see a friend of ours, a cadet. Maybe you know Merlin?"

"Merlin?" the boy snorted, his blue eyes crinkling in amusement as he unrolled his shirtsleeve over the bandage. "Who doesn't? Fought with half the boys in here his first week. Used to be my lance-corporal."

"Used to be?" Gaius said, glancing at Freya.

She didn't meet his eyes, tried to keep her face calm and serene. How many casualties had they suffered on their assignment in the north?

"Yeah, til he told off the cap'n for some order he didn't wanna follow." The cadet snickered and exchanged glances with the boy the dark wiry physician was examining. "The officers, they don't like hearing truth from a junior, do they?"

Gaius shook his head. "Sounds like our Merlin," he said ruefully. "Do you know where he is?"

"Was he injured?" Freya put in softly, reaching to help the boy button his cuff to cover for her concern.

The blue-eyed boy shrugged. "I ain't seen him since we got back, ma'am," he said. "He might be in this line, though. They were punishing him for something or other again, and never let him rest except for nighttime, the whole march back. I saw him limping, too, though it might've been the shoes. They're not made to last forever." The other cadet snorted as he put his shirt back on.

Freya's eyes met Gaius', and he smiled encouragingly. _At least we know he's here_, his look seemed to say. And if he also looked eager and pleased because he was anxious to return to his patients in the Creek, who could blame him?

From her place in the sickroom, Freya couldn't see more than three boys down the line, but found herself glancing up expectantly every time a new cadet entered the room. Then there came the moment when the line shifted forward and no one else stepped into view.

"You know a cadet named Merlin?" Gaius asked their current patient, a blocky boy with a belligerent set to his jaw. Freya thought the old physician must have been keeping an eye out for Merlin, too.

The boy unwrapped a filthy, crusted kerchief from his hand. "We ain't friends," he grunted, opening his fist to reveal a slash across his palm, deep and fiery red.

Gaius hissed in sympathy and reached for the cleansing solution from Freya's tray to disinfect the wound. "Do you know where he is?"

"Heard they're getting rid of him today, lucky bastard." His casual use of the word made Freya's ears burn, without even seeming to notice his profanity in the presence of females. The other little nurse's ears were red below her cap, too, Freya saw. "He'll be down to the clerk's office, then, sooner or later."

**A/N: I suppose I should mention, since people got excited about Lancelot's inclusion – this is just a bit of a cameo for him, in part 2; he'll be back in part 3 with a bigger role to play…**


	3. Emancipation

**Chapter 3: Emancipation**

The clerk's office was tiny, barely more than a closet with a high, wide desk that halved the plain room, separating one small campaign chair from a higher rotating stool. There were two doors, also, one at the back of the room whose access was limited to the clerk behind the desk, and one to the right side of the room.

Freya followed Gaius to the office, which was empty, and waited at the hall doorway as he entered and approached the open side door. She heard voices, multiple male voices, from what echoed like a sizeable room.

Gaius waited, presumably to catch someone's attention, then addressed the unseen person, explaining the reason for their presence. Freya hoped Merlin hadn't already left the barracks – how could they ever find him in a city the size of Camelot?

"Well, sir, you've come to the right place," answered a voice pitched rather high for a man, and pinched nasally. "We're processing the emancipation of four young men this afternoon. Three cadets have come of age during this mission in Sage Springs, and one other has satisfied the terms of a civil sentence. Thus, four. We are waiting now only for, hm, Merlin."

Freya heard footfalls from the hallway behind her, and turned. There was the cadet she'd seen in the midst of the marching unit, uniform still wrinkled, dirty, stained. The short fringe on the shirt was ripped, the shin-guards laced over the trousers just as muddy as the shoes beneath. The limp was noticeable, but as he made no attempt, now, to march, his gait was also familiar to Freya. Rangy and unconstrained, as he glanced side to side like a pacing panther to miss nothing of his surroundings, but gaze ultimately forward, as if deciding where to attack first.

"Merlin?" she said, feeling her lips pull into a smile she couldn't have helped if she'd tried.

And her heart leaped. Leaped, and fluttered, as he smiled back. It was a lopsided smile, cynical and self-deprecating, but it was a conscious smile, there and gone without being stifled or checked.

He reached to drag the knit cap from his head and nodded to her, his eyes moving down to her feet and back up to her face in a quick appraising glance, like he'd never given her before.

She was suddenly acutely aware of her status. As a six-month widow, she was now available to offers from interested men.

Did that head-to-toe glance mean he was interested?

"Ah, Merlin," Gaius said, moving out into the hallway behind Freya. He reached, and Merlin shook his hand with little reservation, nodding to the old physician as well. "It's been a long time," Gaius continued, clapping Merlin's shoulder, then looking at the cloth he'd touched. "You've been bleeding – are you hurt? We've been working in the sick room all afternoon, and expected we might see you, but we were –"

"Cadet Merlin!" came a bellowing roar from the room beyond the clerk's office.

Freya jumped at the sudden call, but as her eyes stayed on Merlin, she was amused to see that the shout brought no reaction from him.

"Oh," Gaius said, gesturing for Merlin to enter, maybe embarrassed at keeping him from the ceremony. "They told us, your emancipation –"

Merlin's lips tightened momentarily. "You didn't come all the way from Emmett's Creek for this."

"Well, no –"

"Cadet! Now!"

Merlin shrugged, giving Freya a sideways glance as he entered the clerk's office. They followed him through the door into a large chamber, mostly empty, with large, ostentatious portraits of various men in military uniforms. There was a large table at the back of the room, that held four small crates, each with a white tag on the front. The far corner was concealed from the rest of the room by a large standing screen of olive-colored material.

There were six men already present, five in uniform and one in a brown jacket, trousers, and vest. Three of those in uniform stood in a row, unnaturally straight and stiff, their eyes fixed to a point on the opposite wall, their hair shorn almost to the skin. Two looked young enough to be called children; the third looked closer to Freya's own age, though they were all eighteen, she supposed, if they were leaving the corps due to a coming-of-age.

Merlin joined them at the end of the row, but simply stood still, without straightening or lifting his chin, his eyes dark and inscrutable and fixed on the fatter of the two older men in uniform. Officers, Freya guessed.

The older of the officers was shorter also, and lean as a whip; his expression was one of polite boredom as he began to recite what sounded to Freya like a rote speech, about gratitude for their service and the value of their contribution to the corps. The other officer was the egg-shaped man from the head of the parade, whose boots were shined within an inch of their lives; he held Merlin's gaze with purple-faced fury, which surprised Freya, but he didn't interrupt the older man – his superior, then, probably.

The man in the brown suit, balding and petulant, rocked on his heels and clutched a sheaf of papers to his narrow chest, peering over a pair of spectacles as the four cadets. He cleared his throat with a little "ahem!" and coughed dryly several times, but the older officer ignored him to drone on, and Freya guessed that the officer knew the coughing and throat-clearing to be more habit than intended interruption.

That officer finally concluded his speech and saluted. All four cadets returned the gesture; Merlin drew himself up and matched the others with the same snap movement.

Freya heard Gaius snort under his breath beside her, and had to consciously relax her eyebrows from a raised position, herself. That was something she never thought to see from Merlin. She wondered – with a full awareness of the mischief in the thought – if he'd salute again, maybe to the fat officer who still glared at him.

The older officer nodded to the dry little man in the suit. "Master Clerk," he intoned.

"Thank you, Commander," the clerk responded, his voice the high, pinched one that had spoken to Gaius upon their arrival. He stepped forward, letting the sheaf of papers fall forward into splayed fingers. "Odry," he read out, and sent two quick glances over the spectacles, at the fat officer and up the row of cadets.

"Cadet Odry, step up!" the fat officer barked, and Freya recognized the voice that had called to Merlin in the hallway. The oldest of the three unfamiliar cadets stepped forward and straightened again, throwing out his chest and lifting his chin. The clerk continued, "Cadet Odry, you were caught stealing from a merchant's stall in the Northeast Quadrant Square, convicted and sentenced to two years. You were granted the chance to serve that sentence in the cadet corps instead of prison, which two years are concluded today."

_Caught stealing_? Freya lost the train of proceedings in her confusion. Three cadets coming of age, the clerk had said, and one satisfying a civil sentence.

Hadn't Merlin told her he'd be serving a military sentence because of his attack on Agent Arthur years ago? Had someone made a mistake? Cadet Odry was shaking the fat officer's hand, exchanging a salute, without protesting the charge of theft.

There was no mistake. Cadet Odry had satisfied a civil sentence. The other three had come of age during their assignment up north.

Merlin had just come of age. Merlin, hard, tough, and sure, was just eighteen. And she was nearing twenty.

She blinked, and it was as if she saw him with new eyes. His hair was less than half an inch long, all over his head; that made him look older, somehow, instead of younger. But the days'-old shadow of whiskers across his clenched jaw proclaimed him a man. There was an inch-long still-healing pink scar on his forehead at his hairline. And between the torn fringe at the cuffs of his uniform shirt she saw that he wore braided wristbands over the old rope-scars. To protect or to conceal?

Then he was stepping forward, his name called. The fat officer, though he'd shown little emotion toward the other cadets, looked ready to pop with fury. Freya saw the corner of a sardonic smile on Merlin's face, the same sort of look he'd always given Reeve Whatley, that said he could see right through him, and didn't think much of him as a result.

The officer saluted Merlin reluctantly, held it for a moment unreturned, then Merlin stepped back to the row. Gaius snorted again; one of the other cadets snickered. The older officer had been brushing at the lapel of his uniform jacket and hadn't noticed Merlin's deliberate lack of courtesy, but the clerk protested, "I say…"

Merlin – eighteen?

She remembered wishing they'd grown up in the same town, that her marriage to Padlow had never happened, that she might have been with Merlin instead.

When Padlow's wagon had rolled to a stop in front of the neighbor's home, two days after her mother's burial… Merlin had been barely thirteen years old.

Maybe even shorter than her, then.

She'd spent the last five years married to a cruel man, a thief, a liar, and a cheat. Merlin had only just gained the right to marry.

Freya couldn't make it fit. That first night when she'd carried the bowl of soup to him – brooding at the corner of the bar, filthy with road-dust and burning up in his hate – she would have guessed him at least a decade her senior, if not more. And then there was the way he'd tossed her out of the dart's path and thrown it back at Burton, fought Whatley and Percy at the same time without hesitation. He'd gone quietly and purposefully about his business in town, working on the roof with Gaius, in the forge with Elyan, never asking for aid or shelter from anyone, constantly pushing away Shasta's attempts to care for him.

After he'd bathed and shaved, hatless she thought him not quite a decade older, but five or six years at least. At least.

She remembered his unguarded smile at her the night Gwen had persuaded her to dance a step or two. He'd looked so young – because he _was_ so young. And before that, he'd been trained as a revenger. What was the name he'd mentioned – Morgan? Meryl? How could she take a _child_, and turn his hand to violence and death?

The ceremony was over. The two officers walked past Freya and Gaius on their way out, the fat one bending to whisper in his superior's ear, the other brushing him away impatiently. The four emancipated cadets went to the boxes on the table under the windows – already the room was beginning to dim as the sun began to fall toward the western horizon, and the lamps on the walls around the room weren't lit yet. The clerk was at the table also, checking his papers, shuffling them about officiously, directing each cadet to one specific crate.

Freya turned to Gaius. "Did you know Merlin was so young?" she asked, in a very low voice that wouldn't carry to the table. She felt embarrassed and didn't know why.

Gaius looked at her closely. He didn't answer the question she'd asked, but put one to her in return. "Does it matter?" he said.

Did it? Had Merlin changed since she'd known him? Was he a boy, looking to others for permission, guidance, reassurance? Had he ever sought to be taken care of? Rather he'd rejected all advice and caring, and vehemently.

The cadets had all opened crates from the table, their nailed lids carefully set to one side. The three Freya didn't know were occupied with lifting item after item – their personal belongings, Freya thought, surrendered when they first arrived. One of the younger-looking cadets held a pair of trousers out, and all three laughed to see them a good four inches too short.

Merlin had scooped out his clothing in a large bundle, which he held under his arm while he examined the contents of his wallet. Seemingly satisfied, he bent to retrieve his wide-brimmed hat and boots from the crate at his feet, then headed for the screened-off area in the corner of the room, re-checking his wallet as he went.

After a moment, the young man named Odry made his way to the screened corner as well; the other two were still emptying their crates. Gaius took Freya's elbow and steered her out of the room.

"Even with the screen up," he said to her as he led her down the hallway to the street door, "it isn't quite proper for you to be present when the boys are changing their clothes."

Freya refrained from reminding Gaius that she'd seen quite a bit of Merlin during his illness when he'd come to the Creek. But Gaius didn't know that she'd accidentally walked in on him in his bath… that thought led to a swift embarrassing memory of what she'd seen.

Even if she was no longer married, was it still wrong for her to contemplate these memories?

He was almost two years younger than her.

The other two emancipated cadets passed them, carrying the contents of their crates in their boxes and talking excitedly, though Freya could make nothing of what she heard.

"They all have chances to make plans for this day," Gaius said conversationally. "Chances to find work or apprenticeships. Or to return to their hometowns. They also have the option of joining the standing army for regular pay. Won't be hard for these young men to make their way. It's not uncommon, either, for merchants or craftsmen to come here to take a younger boy for an apprentice."

Further down the hall, more doors were open, more voices floated through, and a few smaller boys ducked here and there.

"Where is the girls' boarding house from here?" Freya asked idly, referring to the arrangements for girls orphaned without a family to foster them. She would have gone there, herself, almost six years ago when her mother died, but for the waiting cousin.

"It's a few streets over," Gaius agreed. "They teach them sewing and waiting table and what-not. The same rules apply to them, basically, except the girls are not trained to fight or sent out on missions." His tone was so dry Freya looked over, and had to laugh when she caught his eye.

They reached the street door and exited the barracks, standing to wait close to the sun-warmed brick of the building, out of the way of folk passing on the board-walkway. It was nearing the commonly accepted dinner-time, and Freya's stomach felt empty.

"It's rather hard on those who are brought in young, with no money, and who then outgrow their clothes," she remarked.

"As I understand it, no one leaves with nothing," Gaius said. "It's like a charity, almost. People can donate food or clothing, or bring gifts and money. And even if folks aren't looking for long-term help, the boys are available for odd jobs or running errands, the girls for extra serving-work, taking care of children, and so on. Most, I guess, have a little money set aside in those crates by their emancipation day."

"Do you think –" Freya hesitated a moment, unwilling to betray a special interest to the canny physician. "Do you think Merlin made other plans? He never did write back… maybe he'd rather not be reminded of Emmett's Creek."

Gaius stretched his arms, flexing fingers that had been busy with his healing work all afternoon. Freya wondered if she smelled of harsh soap and medicinal herbs, now, as he did. Would Merlin notice –

"Did he scowl when he saw you, or look like he wanted to turn and run in the other direction?" Gaius said.

"No," Freya answered. "He looked worn out, but he – no, he didn't scowl." Gaius patted her shoulder.

"Well, good afternoon," a familiar masculine voice called from down the street; they both turned.

"Ah, Arthur!" Gaius said. As the agent neared, the physician asked, "How is your fellow from Sage Springs doing?"

Arthur waved his hand. "Nothing that isn't expected, in the line of duty and all that. He'll be fine, take a few days' leave." He gave the brick building behind them a quick glance. "So Merlin is back, then?"

"Yes; our timing fortunately allowed us to attend the emancipation ceremony," Gaius told him.

A voice spoke from the doorway behind Freya. "I'm flattered." The tone was dry and sarcastic; Merlin obviously didn't believe they'd come simply to see him. Or were his words referring to the request she'd made in the last letter?

She turned; this was the Merlin she remembered. He wore the same clothes he'd ridden away wearing – the long trousers and scuffed boots, dingy worn shirt, wide-brimmed hat in his hand, his saddlebags slung over his shoulder. His face was clean, the burning rage banked down in his eyes. His hair was much shorter, but otherwise he seemed the same vagrant who'd wandered into Percy's Place over a year ago.

How much had changed since then! How much had Merlin changed since then? she wondered.

Merlin's blue eyes were wary, shuttered, yet he made no move to leave them. After glancing from Gaius to Freya, he nodded at the agent.

"Arthur. Come to take your pound of flesh?" He didn't move a muscle, yet suddenly it seemed to Freya that he was ready to drop hat and saddlebags and fight Arthur on the instant, if necessary. She was puzzled; she'd thought they made their peace last year.

Arthur's lips twisted. "We can discuss that later, if it suits you." Merlin shrugged, but didn't seem to relax his guard. "Lancelot told me about Sage Springs," the agent continued. "I wasn't really surprised to hear it, knowing you. When I said you and I had unfinished business, he asked me to give you his thanks, again. Asked me to go easy on you."

Merlin didn't answer, didn't move, didn't alter his gaze one bit.

Didn't even glance aside, when Gaius said, in a tone that suggested he was trying to smooth the moment over, "There's a story needs telling." Silence for a moment, then he added, "Why don't we find a place for dinner - Arthur, you could ask Gwen to join us, that way she doesn't have to cook tonight - and Merlin can give us his answer."

"Answer?" Merlin and Arthur spoke at the same time.

This wasn't the way Freya envisioned this meeting. She could feel herself flushing red, and dropped her eyes to study the toes of the new shoes on her feet.

"Didn't you get the letter?" Gaius asked.

Merlin settled his hat on his head and reached into one of the pockets of the saddlebags, withdrawing Freya's folded and obviously unopened letter.

"Ah," Gaius said. "Well, this will take some explaining. I know a nice little place just around the corner –"

"The place with white curtains and red tablecloths?" Arthur interrupted, grinning. "With that big corner window?"

"You know it, too?"

"Of course. But Gwen won't be joining us; she's not feeling well, she actually sent me out to bring something back that she could eat. Shall we?" Arthur offered his arm to Freya.

She accepted, but glanced at Merlin, who was tapping one finger of the hand that held the letter against the paper, gazing blankly down at the walkway between her and Gaius. She didn't hear much of what Arthur said to her as they walked down the street, general pleasantries most likely, but because of the noise of the city, she couldn't hear a word of the conversation behind them, though she guessed it touched on her, at least in points.

Gaius would probably ask about Merlin's months in the cadet corps, but he was never one to talk about himself. He would likely want details about the 'answer' he was supposed to give, before they all sat down together.

Why had she ever left the Creek? She knew that answer, and wouldn't have chosen differently, but right now she wished she could return to the relative anonymity of serving drinks and dinners and sweeping floors at Percy's Place. This was not how she pictured this meeting.

She hadn't expected Merlin to be out of town, making it necessary for Gaius to wait in Camelot day after day, presuming on the hospitality of Arthur and Gwen. She had expected Merlin to have read the letter and decided yes or no, making discussion and deliberation unnecessary. She was beginning to doubt the wisdom of their choice, especially since she'd discovered that Merlin was younger than she thought, younger even than herself. Would she feel that she was responsible for him? That she should take care of him? That she ought to be making decisions? She hated feeling like that.

Maybe she ought to have gone to Shasta's family, instead. She'd have been depending on the kindness of strangers, once again, and still within the region of Padlow's tax farm, but possibly she'd have been able to remain unknown.

And alone. She felt very lonely, now, even as Arthur casually chatted about spring in the countryside, and Gaius and Merlin walked behind them. If she wasn't so hungry… and if she didn't have to face Merlin for his answer, eventually… She felt like running back to the comfortable homey guest room in Gwen's house, with the cream-colored quilt and the crocheted doily on the bedside table. She could curl into a corner of the generous-sized bed, and shut her eyes, shut out the world –

"Ah, here we are," Arthur said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had not been expecting to meet anyone from Emmett's Creek in Camelot, much less his enemy's widow. Gaius was an improbability, Freya a near impossibility. Yet here they were.

It was good to know he hadn't been hallucinating, but it was a sure bet it meant they wanted something from him. Freya wasn't the sort to pine for the big city and beg to be taken along on a trip, far from it. Gaius, he knew, came occasionally to the capital, but for Freya to come along, something had changed.

As Gaius and Arthur compared notes on the public dining room they'd chosen, Merlin's mind was running back through the several letters he'd received from Emmett's Creek. Written from Gaius by Freya's hand, they were full of news of different folks' doings, and messages from those he'd connected with – Percy and Shasta and Gwen, Elyan the blacksmith, and Gaius himself. They'd hinted that they considered Merlin the best candidate for the shire's reeve, if he wanted to return when his obligations to the state were fulfilled. Merlin had given it a little thought; he hadn't made many friends in Emmett's Creek – never intended making any – but he had no enemies there, anymore. And only three, that he knew of, were aware of the horrors in his past.

He hadn't made up his mind, yet, but the only other option he'd considered was returning to Turad to rejoin Morgana's revengers. His heart really wasn't in that work, anymore, but it didn't seem his heart was in any kind of work. Possibly in working for Morgana again he might find himself, doing what he knew and understood and had some skill at. He might even find meaning in life again. A reason for living, for continuing to eat and draw breath and roll out of his blanket in the morning. Now that he didn't have rules and regulations and orders, and officers to see to it that he followed those simple steps of living.

But now she was here. And since Arthur hadn't considered it necessary, six months ago, for her to come in person to give testimony concerning the events surrounding Padlow's crimes, and the punishment meted out by the people of Emmett's Creek, it meant she was here for another purpose.

There hadn't been much about Freya in Gaius' letters. They hadn't found any hiding places for Padlow's accumulated ill-gotten gains, no jar of coins buried in the cellar, no bankbooks totaling savings and deposits. He knew Freya had a little money, since Gaius had reported the sale of the furs stored in the hut to a trader passing through. No one had disputed Shasta's assertion that Freya deserved that small profit. He recalled vaguely a small paragraph hinting that Freya's injury at the hands of her husband had won a grudging respect from the townspeople.

At first, at least. Why, then, had she come to Camelot? Why had they come to the barracks if not in search of him? Why had they stood in the crowd this morning if they had not been anticipating the return of his company of cadets?

"What's in it?" he said shortly to Gaius, tapping the letter as they walked.

"We thought everything had settled down," Gaius said obliquely. "After Padlow's – death. Freya recovered quickly, and folks seemed to be friendlier to her, everything getting to be peaceful." Gaius paused as they stepped around a beggar sitting on the curb with his bare feet stretched into the street to draw attention to his chant and shaken coin cup.

"What happened?"

"Folks started coming into town – strangers," Gaius answered. "Some important folk, influential folk. Some with positions of authority, even – other reeves from the region, merchants, paid delegations for farmers' unions. News spread that our tax farmer had his neck stretched, and folks wanted to know if they were going to get their money back. Everyone knew he was a cheat and a thief, and it was reasonable to assume he'd left his riches when he passed. Emmett's Creek, for the most part, remembered how he'd treated her, how she'd dressed in charity cast-offs and made her living working at Percy's, but try telling a stranger that Padlow's widow hasn't got a penny of his, and doesn't know where any of it is…" The old physician case a significant glance over at Merlin.

He understood without hearing more. Folk who'd been smarting under the extra burden of unfair taxes, hearing their oppressor had been executed, feel a relief of freedom, begin to plan on keeping their profits again, begin to calculate what it would mean to them and their families not to scrimp and save and hide and lie. It was just a short step from there to questioning whether some of what had been unfairly taken might not be recovered. Decisions made to take the journey, to ask, to demand, the hopes of those left behind waiting, and then to face the improbably story that the widow had been left poorer than any.

Merlin didn't suppose he'd believe it either, if he didn't have firsthand knowledge of the situation. He didn't have to wonder if Freya had any idea where the money was; if she knew, she'd have given it away by now.

"There were several – incidents," Gaius said, and grimaced at Merlin's swift glance. "No one was hurt, but it began to feel very much like when Padlow or Whatley or Burton was trying to keep folks in line. People began to talk about Freya being the cause of the new unrest, the ugly temper of the strangers making trouble through town, though clearly it wasn't her fault. And in fact, the incidents were almost all directed at her."

Merlin stared hard at her back. The new dark blue dress fit her much better than the ragged clothes she'd worn in Emmett's Creek, revealing a trim figure any man would look twice at. The shoes didn't flap at her heels, her cap and wide-brimmed straw hat covered all but the round curve of her cheek, but in the graceful sway of her walk he could see no indication that she'd suffered any further injury. His gaze rested on her trim waist, at the side where Padlow's knife had wounded her.

She walked on, unconscious of his gaze, attentive to Arthur's words.

"She's fine," Gaius said, and there was something in his tone that made Merlin glare at him; thought the physician kept his eyes ahead, a small smile was pulling at his mouth. "We thought it would be best, however, for everyone, if she left for a time. Til things truly calm down."

"Could be years," Merlin observed shortly.

"Someone told you how she came to Emmett's Creek?" Gaius said, glancing at him. "Shasta, probably? Well, she's going back to her original plan."

Merlin thought back. Way back. "Her mother's cousin?" he said.

Gaius nodded. "It's rather far away, and no one really has the time to journey with her, and as for more common transportation –" he stopped. "You understand?"

He understood. The last time Freya had trusted a stranger paid to take her to her destination, he had simply taken her. And kept her; though she'd had some choice in that, confusion over her mother's teachings had her convinced her duty was to remain with him.

"So someone suggested you," Gaius continued. "This was only a couple of weeks ago, so we thought, since you were due to get out of the corps, and if you didn't have any other pressing plans –" The physician raised his eyebrows.

So that was the question that needed answering. And it would be harder for him to refuse with her standing right in front of him. Merlin shrugged his indifference.

"Here we are," Arthur said from in front.

…..*….. …*….. …*….. …..*….. …*…

They stood in the doorway only a moment for Arthur – a regular customer, it seemed, and missed since his marriage had him enjoying Gwen's cooking in his own home – talked them to the corner window table. And it was only moments after that they were all served pork chop with a sauce made from apple, walnuts, and maple, along with spring greens and fall potatoes fried golden brown.

Gaius and Arthur did most of the talking. Freya tried hard to concentrate on her meal, and was aware that Merlin did the same. He ate steadily and somewhat mechanically, without looking at any of them or trying to participate, or even follow, the conversation. If it hadn't been for the fuss and bother to the dining room wait-staff, and for the raised eyebrows, she might have suggested moving herself and Merlin to another table.

Gaius told stories of the incidents in Emmett's Creek that had caused her to decide to leave – the rock with a threatening note wrapped around it hurled through Percy's front window, the hateful messages scrawled in charcoal on the tavern and Gaius' office both, the fights that had broken out in the tavern, and the one failed abduction attempt.

She blushed furiously through the last story; Gaius did embellish, sometimes, when he was storytelling. She was sure that it had never been half so serious – yet it was the one story that Merlin stopped eating to listen to, and had turned that inscrutable blue gaze on her during. She held his eyes for a short moment, but his expression didn't change, and the shorn hair and lack of fierce burning hate in his eyes made him seem almost a stranger.

They had finished, mostly, when the question came up.

"So you figured to send her on to her aunt's for a while, until things calm back down," Arthur mused, sitting back in his chair. "Last I heard, Uther had appointed clerks to send letters to all the reeves in that tax region, informing them of the accurate tax burden – it'll cost everyone extra to send someone with the taxes here to Camelot, but less probably than Padlow was extorting, and less than if an agent had to be sent and fines levied for nonpayment. If another tax farmer elects to buy the region, that would settle things down quickly. If he were a fair man, and willing to work on small profits for a few years, that would be even better."

Merlin snorted at that, but though they all looked at him, he didn't look up from the table. He wore the same blank stare he'd had just as they were leaving the cadet barracks.

"We were hoping on Merlin to accompany Freya to her mother's cousin," Gaius explained to Arthur.

"And then?" Merlin spoke up then, his tone neutral and his gaze still on the dish-cluttered red tablecloth. "The offer for the office of reeve?"

"Well, yes," Gaius said, somewhat surprised. "If you're interested. We haven't found anyone willing that we'd trust to be worth the pay."

"It seems to me you're taking the long way around on this," Merlin said, his tone still soft but with a dangerous edge to it. He lifted a piercing gaze to Gaius' face, and the old man sat back uncomfortably. "Or is the offer of the position not a genuine one?"

"What do you mean?" Gaius said, and to Freya he sounded uneasy. Under the edge of the red tablecloth, she bunched her napkin into a ball and held it tightly.

"If you truly thought I could handle the responsibility of a reeve – to keep the peace, make fair decisions, and punish the guilty when laws are broken – why send Freya to her mother's cousin?"

It was the first time she'd heard him say her name in – well, a long time. He didn't look at her at all, but she was glad for that. Hadn't she always been told her face could keep no secrets? If he looked at her now, he could see her reaction to her name sounding in his voice all over her…

"Unless," Merlin paused deliberately, "you didn't really believe I could handle all the trouble you've been having over the missing wealth."

That had never occurred to Freya. All she wanted was to get away from more strangers blaming her for their troubles, the angry demanding faces and the misunderstandings that prompted explanations of the truth of her husband's treatment of her. Had they discussed the consequences of Merlin entering the situation with the office and authority of a reeve, when she wasn't there?

Evidently they had. Gaius said, "We were thinking more of the repercussions if you –" he exchanged a knowing look with the agent next to him at the table – "if _you_ were to handle the situation."

Arthur chuckled softly, but Merlin's intensity increased.

"You think –" his voice was still calm, but the note of danger was more pronounced, and both older men stopped smiling. "You think justice would be lacking, or control? You think a Reeve Merlin would make the situation worse?"

"Well, no," Gaius protested weakly. "We thought, since Freya wanted to go back to her family anyway –"

"Ah." Merlin relaxed back, hooking his elbow over the back of his chair, a cynical look shadowing his face. "With her gone from the Creek, things will take care of themselves, yes? No more trouble for any to worry about." He might have said more, might have wanted to, she thought, surprised that he'd said so much already, but he bit it back and clenched his jaw, looking off into the bustle of the dining room.

Did he care about that? Freya wondered. She didn't see anything wrong in removing herself so the situation would resolve without further conflict. Then again, what did she know of what Merlin cared about? His revenge against her husband had been taken, not exactly to his liking – well, not to his liking at all – and she knew that he did care about others, at least sometimes, even if he'd never admit it and didn't care to have the fact pointed out to him. Hadn't he saved her life when it meant missing his chance at revenge?

"So where does this mother's cousin live?" Arthur asked. Freya thought he was trying to turn the conversation back to more pleasant channels.

"Turad," she answered.

Merlin's head turned slightly, and his blue eyes examined her, considering.

"Turad. That's quite a ways from here," Arthur commented. "I may be making that trip myself, soon. Ten days riding, at least."

"It'll take longer than that," Gaius reminded their host, taking a pocket watch from his vest and consulting it. "She's got Padlow's wagon and team."

"I can sell the wagon and ride if it's easier," Freya interrupted, inwardly wincing at the thought of ten days' riding when she was far from being a good rider, and not at all used to sitting a saddle. "I don't have much that I'm taking, and I'm sure it can be packed for –"

"Don't bother," Merlin said, without meeting any of their eyes. "We can take the wagon."

Gaius and Arthur exchanged glanced again. Gaius said, "You mean you'll take Freya to Turad?"

Merlin turned to look the agent full in the face. "If I'm free to go."

Freya was puzzled. Why wouldn't he –

Arthur grinned, but his blue eyes were ice-hard. "For now," he said. One of Merlin's eyebrows lifted; he looked far from happy, himself. Yet Merlin happy would be an odd sight.

Freya felt let down, somehow. She had expected to feel excitement, anticipation. She had been looking forward – she would admit it – to seeing Merlin again. She was no longer married, and she thought they had developed a – well, an understanding, at least. Now she felt like so much baggage – in the way here, ship her over there, shrug over time wasted.

She was so tired.


	4. The Full Cup Inn

**Chapter 4: The Full Cup Inn**

It didn't take as long as Merlin had thought, to leave Camelot. Packing the wagon and saying farewells had occupied the morning, that was all.

He and Freya ate their midday meal – cold sausage, cheese, and bread, packed by the landlady of the rooms where Gaius and Merlin had spent the night – on the bench seat of the wagon. As he drove the pair of grays through the streets, sometimes at less than a walk, due to the busyness of the city, toward the south gate.

Neither of them said much, though Merlin was willing to lay that to the noise and near-impossibility of carrying on a conversation without shouting, rather than to reluctance to speak, at least on her part.

Since that morning behind the physician's office, when Gaius made him undress to check his bruises from the tavern fight, he hadn't paid much attention to most of what the old man said to him, half of which was intended to provoke a response. He humored the old physician more than he responded to jibes or attended to advice. Yet Gaius' words at their parting that morning had stuck in his mind.

"Take care of her," the old man had said seriously, no trace of his usual humorous glint. "_You_ take care of her. Away from Emmett's Creek, she will need you. She will need _you_."

Had something like that come from Shasta's mouth, and with only slightly different inflection, Merlin would have taken it as teasing intended to goad him into an admission of some kind. Something nearer the heart, like.

But Gaius had been serious.

What did he think Merlin could do for her? He had nothing to offer anyone, anymore. He was nothing. Just an empty body waiting to die. It hadn't happened for him during the last six months; he guessed it could wait another two weeks til they reached Turad and he handed her to her mother's cousin. Or a little longer, if he found aught to interest him with Morgana's organization. Or if Emmett's Creek was serious, and insistent, about having him as a reeve.

Freya said something he didn't catch, lost in the bray of a recalcitrant donkey off to the side. He leaned toward her to indicate she should repeat herself, caught two words – _want more_ – in the rising inflection of a question. She held the last chunk of bread from their loaf, along with scraps and crumbs of the cheese scattered on the blue cotton of the towel it had been wrapped in, and gestured that he should take what he wanted.

He shook his head, and she wrapped the towel up, tucking the corners in neatly and turning to store it behind their seat in the back of the wagon.

The crowds thinned considerably as they left the city through the south gate; those who lived and worked outside the city walls having their midday meals where they were rather than re-entering the city.

The white cap Freya wore to protect her hair from the dust of the road left a small fringe of black hair above her eyes, and in front of her ears, and hid none of her face. The plain straw hat she wore was flat- and wide-brimmed, offering shade but no more cover for her expression than the cap. She'd been watching him since he'd handed her up to the seat, outside the stable where the horses and wagon had been lodged during her stay in Camelot. More than she'd been watching anything else around her as they left the city.

She'd never had trouble speaking her mind to him before – never talkative, but never shy or self-conscious, as she was now. What had changed? Why did he suddenly make her feel so uncomfortable? Was she re-considering riding with him to Turad?

"Did Gaius tell you we saw your company march into the city, yesterday morning?" Freya said finally.

The sun was in the last quarter of the sky and sliding down to the horizon, throwing long shadows over the hills and fields. Merlin flipped a rein to keep the horses moving at a fast walk. Freya turned her head slightly to see his face, but didn't show any offense when he didn't respond, and continued, quickly enough that he wondered if she had expected him to answer at all.

"I wasn't sure if it was you, until we saw you again at the barracks," she went on, then paused for a moment to clutch at the seat as they rattled through a rough patch in the road. "We were there all afternoon, helping the corps physician patch up cadets. Until we heard they were emancipating you." She paused again – maybe she was allowing him a chance to say something if he wished. "They rather expected you to be in the line for the physician's care. But you weren't," she added unnecessarily.

Still he said nothing, not sure what she was trying to get at.

"No one was sure if you'd been injured or not – someone said you were limping, but it could have been your shoes…" She trailed off and shifted on the seat to look down at the boots he'd worn in Emmett's Creek – and long before that, if the truth be known – that he'd gotten back with the rest of his personals. "I know you don't like people to help you," she said hesitantly. Even from the corner of his eye he could tell her gaze had intensified on him. "You don't like to admit when you're hurt…"

"Are you asking if I'm capable of seeing you safely to your cousin's?" he said, putting just enough humor into the question that she would know he wasn't angry at her roundabout questions.

Her intensity lessened somewhat, perhaps in relief that he hadn't taken offense. "No, I'm asking if you're all right," she answered. "There was blood on your face –" She reached as if she would nudge his hat back to inspect the inch-long scar at his hairline.

He jerked back and shot a glare at her as a near-instantaneous reaction.

She froze for a second, her face shocked, then pulled back and tucked her hand into her lap, turning forward and straightening mechanically. She didn't try to speak again until the sun was touching the horizon.

He'd been watching for their destination for half of an hour already; the days were getting longer and it was possible to travel during twilight, after the sun had set but before true dark, but he didn't want to have to walk at the horses' heads with a lantern, or to miss whatever dinner might await them. He gave the reins a cut and the grays obediently increased their walking pace.

"Are we –" she said in a low voice, half-turning to him, then paused and started again. "Did you have someplace in mind to stop for the night?"

Freya didn't look up to meet his eyes, so instead of merely nodding, he said, "Spring's a busy time in the Creek?"

She looked at him then, a swift startled glance. "Spring is a busy time everywhere, I guess," she answered, her tone betraying confusion.

"Gaius said no one else could spare a month's worth of traveling, Turad and back," Merlin said, making it into a question, but with no pressure to answer.

"Shasta mentioned you," Freya said, but sounded troubled.

"Why did you agree?" Merlin said neutrally. Far up the road he could make out the tiny earth-colored blocks of the town they were approaching. Rockchest, if he was right. No walking in the road with a lantern, then, and they'd be there in time for a hot meal.

Freya's mouth opened to reply, but no words came out, and she pressed her lips together again, giving him a troubled glance.

Maybe it was a trust issue. He didn't figure he'd changed much, but she'd gone from being a married woman to a widow, at least in her own eyes, and he guessed that such a change in status would change the way a woman viewed herself, the world, former acquaintances.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He hadn't answered Freya's question about where and when they were to stop, though she'd tried to phrase it so he wouldn't take offense. Was he waiting for her to decide where to make camp? Or was his question about her agreement to ride with him an indirect rebuke to let him handle things?

His face was expressionless, the shadow of the brim of his hat across his jaw. She remembered that this was the way she'd seen him first – the side of his face as he refused to look at her, refused to take Shasta's complimentary bowl of soup from her hand. He'd needed a shave then, too.

As she debated whether to mention the need to stop and make camp before dark, again, he spoke and interrupted her dilemma.

"The night I came to the Creek?" His tone invited her to remember, but she was too startled at his speaking her own thought back to her to respond. He didn't look at her, however, didn't seem to notice the lack. "Percy and Shasta didn't want to leave you alone with me, in Whatley's cell," he continued. "But you weren't afraid of me. Not then, and not after. Why?"

The biggest reason had been because she was used to physical abuse from Padlow, and other kinds of hurt from the townsfolk. She hadn't expected any different from him, hadn't believed he could hurt her in any way that was new to her. She'd endured it all before, and survived. He hadn't been a threat to her in any real way. He talked tough, but from the very first, spinning her out of the way of the dart's path as skillfully as a professional dancer, his touch had always been gentle.

That was the most obvious reason. But there was more to it than that, now. Which was why, for the second time, she didn't answer. But he still didn't seem to notice.

"You told Shasta, what could I do to you? and you told me, nothing that hasn't happened before." She waited for him to bring up the more personal aspects of her unhappy marriage, which she'd hinted at to him, but she was pretty sure he understood most of the worst. He was silent for a moment, though, then said, "Past six months have been better for you? Friends and neighbors friendlier and… neighborly?"

She risked a glance at him. He had made a joke? Merlin? That was almost as surprising as the volume of words. His face was still expressionless; he still focused his gaze on the road ahead and the team of grays, rather than her.

"Strangers now coming to town, looking to make trouble for you again, without even knowing you," he went on. "And with the situation so reversed, who do you trust?"

Freya had been so focused on Merlin and his unusual willingness to talk that she'd given little notice and no thought whatsoever to the tiny cluster of buildings they were coming to, and was surprised when the wagon lurched from the road into a tight yard between a smallish two-story building and a larger barn, both needing new paint. Two men in rough clothing sauntered from the barn, while a young girl in a dirty apron hurried with a pair of buckets out to the covered well just beyond the open doors of the barn.

She stared around her as Merlin halted the team at an angle where they could back the wagon into the barn. A weathered sign hung from a post at the open doorway of the two-story building, picturing a rough pewter goblet tipping to spill two drops of blood-red wine.

Merlin used his boot to set the brake, and swung himself down. He spoke for a minute to the older of the two men, a broad-shouldered stablehand with tight black curls, and passed around the wagon to her side.

She quickly retrieved her personal case from behind the seat. Merlin reached up for her waist and helped her jump down, as she held her skirt away from the wheel. He let his hands rest for a moment, reminding her strongly of how he'd touched her to spin her away from Burton's dart.

But doubts immediately sprang up – what was he thinking as he touched her so? Were certain more intimate desires occurring to him?

"What are you afraid of?" he said, in a low quiet voice, those penetrating blue eyes so close to her she almost stopped breathing.

It took her a moment to realize he meant it as a continuation, a conclusion of his conversation with her. He said it as a question she was to consider, not answer, as though he expected she didn't yet know the answer.

They entered the two-story building under the sign of the full cup. As Merlin stood back to allow the girl with her stained apron to rush past with her full water-buckets, Freya couldn't help but notice how different this place was from Percy's tavern.

The dooryard was plain dirt, with animal waste scuffed and packed in, marred with puddles collected and dried over the years. The dirt had been tracked up on the narrow and uneven porch, and she could tell from the way it had drifted up the support posts and the lintel of the door, that no one was in the habit of sweeping.

It seemed no one was in the habit of cleaning much at all. The small paned windows were dim with grime, and the floorboards inside almost invisible beneath layers of mud and straw. The tiny fire – thankfully unnecessary this far into spring – flickered fitfully in a choking nest of ash. A skinny slat-ribbed mutt in a corner was lapping a spill of what Freya hoped was gravy, as his master shoveled food into his mouth without looking up.

The door faced the stairway to the second floor, which two women were descending as Merlin shut the door behind Freya. They wore the plain brown dresses of lower-class working women, but no aprons; she guessed them to be visiting guests rather than employees of the establishment.

Freya smiled at them as they came down far enough to bring their faces into view, and was surprised and a little dismayed, when neither returned her wordless greeting.

The one, narrow-faced and crook-nosed, whispered something to her companion, blocky and squint-eyed, and they both studied her sharply as they rounded the corner to the dining area – four small and mostly tilted tables surrounded by a motley unmatched collection of chairs. They continued their scrutiny of her – her dress, her hat, the small traveling case in her hand – over their shoulders as they sat at a table opposite to the lone man.

The dog had its paws on the table now, licking gravy from the tabletop where it had spilled from the plate. The man didn't take any notice of the women, or his dog, and they ignored him as well.

Merlin moved out from behind her, hat in hand, and ducked through the doorway opposite the dining room on the other side of the stair. He waited a moment, taking in whatever activity there was in the kitchen – Freya could see a cupboard, the end of a table that held a large bowl of greens and a chopping knife.

"Two dinners, bread and cider," Merlin said to someone she couldn't see.

Freya turned back to discover the two women in low conversation with each other, their eyes now appraising Merlin. _What are they saying_? she wondered. Did they take him for older than he was, as she had done, as all Emmett's Creek had done, last year? Or did they know him for little more than a child, as far as months and years went?

A stray thought caught her cross-wise – did they think he was her husband?

Merlin's hand at her back made her jump; to cover her startlement she moved forward to the first table on the front wall between the window and the door. There were two chairs, but though Merlin pulled the near one out, he stepped around her again and waited with his hand on the back of the second chair til she'd taken the first.

He twisted his chair so the back would be to the wall, before sitting, and hung his hat over the back of it. He sat with his boots out, ankles crossed, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the floor, a frown line between his eyebrows. He didn't appear to have paid any more attention to the man and his dog, or the two women, than one initial room-sweeping glance.

Freya noticed suddenly that the hair on his head was about as long as his eyelashes, and the shortness of it made his lashes look longer, somehow.

She could feel herself blushing at the thought, and lowered her own eyes to the crumb-covered table. There was a smear halfway between him and her, maybe butter or grease – then it was covered by pewter goblets, plates set down, one after the other. Steamy and overflowing with thick, lumpy gravy, liberally ladled over pot roast, potatoes, and what looked to be last fall's carrots, alike.

Freya looked up as the serving woman – the cook? the owner? the innkeeper's wife? – licked gravy from her thumb, and dug their tableware from an apron pocket. The girl with the stained apron was serving the two sharp-eyed women in the corner.

It smelled good, anyway. Freya took a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm the anxiety she couldn't explain, even to herself… Afraid? He thought she was afraid? What did _he_ think she was afraid of?

Was he right?

Freya reached for her spoon and knife, and realized that they were in Merlin's hand, stretched toward her handle-first. She took them, uncomprehending, until he began to wipe his own on a napkin held in his other hand, already smudged from those he'd cleaned for her first.

"Thank you," she said softly, surprised, but he gave no sign he'd heard.

She tried to eat her fill, tried not to think how dirty the kitchen might be, tried not to scrape her spoon along the bottom of the plate.

Merlin ate sitting sideways, his back to the wall, seeming to take in everything while noticing nothing in particular. She thought it would be awkward for him, but he ate left-handed as though he'd done it all his life, and never spilled, though she'd seen him at his dinner often enough in Percy's Place to know he was right-handed.

The dog put its head on its master's boot as he finished and lit a pipe, tossing his used match onto his plate. The two women were still giving Freya – and sometimes Merlin – more of their attention than their own dinners, or each other, or the other man.

She wondered if they were staying the night here also, and if the inn had private bedrooms with locks on the inside of the doors, upstairs.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had regretted his decision to stay at the Full Cup Inn since he'd pulled into the dooryard. The barn's accommodations for horses and wagons couldn't hold a candle to the stable next to Elyan's forge, and if anyone gave one-tenth the attention to cleaning the place that Shasta and Gwen and Freya had given to Percy's Place, he'd eat his boots, road-muck and all.

The place was quiet now, and dark. No candle left on a tabletop for late customers; no late customers, so far. He could hear the old man, snoring on his cot in the men's sleeping room. The dog lay beneath the cot and snored, too.

Merlin sat on the floor in the hall, leaning against the outer wall of the women's sleeping room, right beside the door. His hat and boots were on the floor next to him. He was counting again, though not because he was trying to sleep. No, tonight he counted to keep himself awake, to keep track of the passing hours til daylight.

Had Freya noticed the scrutiny of the two plainly-dressed women, now sleeping in cots alongside hers in the women's room? Had she guessed it was anything more than rudeness? He'd have warned her but for the knowledge that she wouldn't sleep a wink if he had. She wouldn't be able to keep her suspicion of them from showing on her face, and that might have provoked them.

So here he sat and listened, breathing silently through his mouth, and counted, waiting for dawn.

A floorboard creaked, behind him in the women's room. He tensed to leap to his feet, and waited. Old structures always creaked, and this one hadn't been exceptionally well-made. He'd reacted twice already this night to creaks and groans the inn made on its own. So he waited.

Nothing. Nothing. He could feel the grime from the floor under his palms, his fingertips. Sticky, greasy, gritty –

A soft moan. Had he imagined it? Was it a sound made by a sleeper?  
>The old man snored. The dog whimpered in its sleep, made shuffling noises on the bare floor. Snored again in harmony with its master.<p>

Merlin rose silently to his stockinged feet, eased sideways to the door and leaned his ear against it. A rustle of cloth – could be someone rolling over, adjusting a blanket. Another low moan, more of a grunt.

And the gasp of air taken swiftly into lungs in fright. Maybe just a nightmare.

Merlin swung open the door and was halfway into the room regardless – and was glad he had. By the light of a single candle, tilting dangerously on the sloping canvas of an empty cot, he could see Freya wrestling with the stouter of the two women, while the sharp-faced one tossed Freya's new dark-blue dress aside and yanked the top of the traveling case open. He acted without thinking, leaping over two empty cots and two with rumpled abandoned blankets, to reach them.

Of course his feet thudded on the board floor, but the speed of his rush brought him up beside the last cot as the stout woman was still turning. The surprise of his appearance was enough for Freya to twist free, but like all of her kind – and Merlin himself, once upon a time – the stout woman reacted swiftly. A blade flashed toward him; with his right hand he tossed Freya backwards onto her cot, his left avoided the knife to grasp the woman's wrist and yank her forward. One of his outstretched feet was enough to trip her up, and she went sprawling over her companion, knocking Freya's case loose from her fingers.

Keeping himself between the two women, struggling to extract themselves from each other, and Freya, he snatched her dress up from the floor, and glanced back at her swiftly.

She was huddled on her knees on the cot, eyes dark and face pale even in the dim candlelight. Her fists were close under her chin, her bent arms bared by a sleeveless shift hugged tight to her body. Her hair had been let grow, he thought distractedly, in the six months that had passed, and was fanned over her shoulders, thick and dark and curly from being pinned under her cap all day.

"Get dressed," he told her, handing her the garment he held. "We're not staying."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*…..

Thud.

The wagon quivered, and Freya was instantly awake under the woven wool blanket in the back. Her eyes flew open, she could see the corner of a crate of supplies and the top of the water barrel outlined against the deep blue dawn sky. She heard the jingle of a harness buckle, thud of a hoof stomped on the grassy earth. And a man's low voice, spoken soothingly from somewhere nearby.

Merlin was hitching the horses to the wagon, though it was still too early, too dark to see much.

Freya shifted slightly so her shoulders lay flat against the bed of the wagon and stared up into the sky, where only a few of the brightest stars were still visible. The wagon tilted, shuddering into motion, settled into a sway, but Merlin had not climbed to the driver's seat. He must be walking at the horses' heads with a lantern, she concluded. Walking, when ever step was a limp; she had no idea, still, what had happened or how bad his injury was.

Merlin was a walking – well, limping – contradiction. Eighteen years old, and yet he looked and acted – and thought, probably – like a man with a good extra decade of years. He seemed to have forgotten his youth, himself. Which was why it was disconcerting for her to remember. Ask him for help and he was more likely to walk away than agree. Thank him, and he ground his teeth in irritation. Yet here he was, enduring pain without a word of complaint to help her, the wife – widow, rather – of the man who'd murdered his family.

What would it matter to him to wait two more hours til daylight, when he could ride? There was no need, really, to travel yet. A few more hours closer to Turad and her mother's cousin wouldn't make much difference when they were still this far away.

And Merlin had assured her that no one would be following to ask questions about what had happened at the Full Cup.

After a while, the wagon stopped; the sky had lightened considerably. Freya half-rose on her elbow, turning to watch over the edge of the side of the wagon as Merlin approached.

His limp seemed worse to her, but he lifted himself to the seat easily enough. He glanced over his shoulder at her as he set the darkened lantern under the seat; he didn't smile, but his expression softened perceptibly. It was as good as a greeting, from him.

"Morning," she ventured. He nodded, then turned to flip a rein and click his tongue at the horses to start them up again. She moved around til she could sit sideways, her back propped against a crate, to watch the countryside come into view with the dawning day. And to watch the comfortable slouch of Merlin's back.

It was very quiet out here, compared to Camelot at the same time of morning. Even compared to Emmett's Creek, where everyone would be stirring about morning chores. She took a deep breath of fresh cool air, deep as her lungs could take, and let it out slowly.

"Merlin," she said. He shifted on the seat enough that he could still focus on the team and the road, yet indicate to her that he was listening. "Why did we leave? Why did we not – stay?"

He didn't look back, took a moment to respond. "Two possibilities," he said. "They could've been local, familiar faces, whether their – purse-snatching – was known or not. That case, we could've been charged instead."

"Charged?" she said, surprised. "You mean, by the reeve? Fines or jail time?"

"Or stocks, whippings." He didn't sound too concerned, but though she found that extreme hard to believe, Merlin wasn't one to lie, or even exaggerate. "Second possibility, they're strangers like us. Then it's our word against theirs. Even toss who they believe. Better not wait to find out."

Freya thought about that a while. It seemed unfair to her, unjust. She stole another glance at Merlin's back. He had a lot more experience with the judicial system than she had, but – no one had ever called Padlow to account, for years and years. Years of abuse suffered, ignored, or occasionally aided by Reeve Whatley. She had never really thought whether that situation was highly unusual for the land at large, or whether it was a common trend uncovered.

Truth? Justice? Even Percy had joined the posse – understandable, but still illegal. No wonder folk paid revengers like Merlin to right the wrongs done to them.

"You all right?" His words startled her into looking up. He glanced back at her in a way that made her think he'd looked back maybe more than once.

She looked down at the blanket rumpled across her legs, closed her eyes and felt again the stout woman's hard, heavy hands on her. It had not been an unfamiliar sensation, the rough violence forcing her to comply, to surrender. She shuddered.

"First time you fought back?" he asked her.

She didn't answer his question immediately, but laid her blanket aside, rose carefully to her feet, and lifted the skirt of her dress to step over the low back of the driver's seat. She held the seat itself for balance, but noticed that he passed both sets of reins to his left hand as if in readiness to help her if she needed it. She settled herself on the seat and smoothed her skirt, straightening her back and gazing distantly down the deserted dirt track.

"I always felt it wrong to defend myself against my husband," she said, and glanced warily aside at him as he growled in his throat, feeling a chill run up her spine.

He made no comment though, merely re-adjusted his grip on the reins.

"I felt it would make the situation worse," she said haltingly, wanting to be sure that voicing these thoughts for the first time would not upset him unduly. "He was never one to admit a mistake, or change his mind, especially when faced with – resistance." She looked at him suddenly, reminded that such resistance, or the threat of it, had gotten his family killed, and decided that she'd said enough.

Merlin didn't speak much of the rest of the day, but still seemed polite and open, if somewhat preoccupied with the care of the horses. She guessed no one would ever accuse him of being talkative, but she was beginning to feel more comfortable with him again.

Her new status as widow rather than wife hadn't really affected her – or maybe it just hadn't sunken in – until she'd left Emmett's Creek. Everyone there had known who she was, and had mostly ignored her, or treated her with stiff kindness or awkward pity. No one had made advances of any kind to her, ever, except Padlow and Burton. Her life with her mother had been quiet to the point of reclusion, their contact with strangers limited, and Freya had never felt the lack of anything more.

But when she arrived in Camelot, strangers – men – had noticed her, had smiled and tipped their hats and turned their heads as she walked past.

It made her aware of herself in a way she never had before. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that this new self-consciousness had a lot to do with the awkwardness she felt toward Merlin, not because of any change in the way he treated her.

Questions came subtly as they waited day after day in the capital. Would he smile as those other men had, with speculation in an up-and-down gaze? Would he tip his hat to her as an admiring man to an attractive woman? Would he turn his head to keep watching her as they passed each other? And what would she do if he did? For the few days before the return of his cadet company and the surprise of his emancipation, she had felt a faint warm anticipation when she thought of him.

But after discovering his age to be more than a year younger than herself, she felt acutely and uncomfortably aware of that disparity. Part of her still wondered if she would attract his attention, but part of her was still trying to adjust to the fact of his youth and the uncertainty it brought her. Would he consider her as a man considers a woman? Did she want him to?

She was musing over this, half-asleep and only half-aware of him next to her on the driver's seat of the wagon, swaying as the wheels bumped into and out of hardened ruts, warm in the late afternoon sun on their faces. Then he cleared his throat.

"I was told certain things about the Full Cup," he said. "Things I did not find to be true."

She waited a moment, but he said nothing further. Was he trying to apologize? She realized, then, that he'd planned to stop there, that he hadn't simply happened upon the place and made a quick decision on the moment. He hadn't been waiting for her to decide anything, yesterday, nor to direct him in their preparations for the night. Today, though…

"I assumed," Merlin said, paused, then went on without meeting her eyes, "that you would rather sleep in a house, in a bed, with other folk around, than camp out in a field or clearing, with none for miles, maybe. But…" he stopped again.

She watched him, not saying anything herself, wondering what he was really trying to convey. His blue working-man's shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, cuffs rolled up past his elbows, the scars at his wrists exposed. He sat with his broad-brimmed hat low over his eyes, one foot up on the buckboard, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, reins held loosely between strong fingers. Try as she might, she could not see anything of an eighteen-year-old about him. There wasn't a hint of hesitation or self-consciousness.

And, oddly, she thought of the day Percy had carried him downstairs to the tub in the small room off the kitchen at Shasta's insistence that he needed a proper bath, the day she'd walked in on them unknowingly. He'd been standing in the tub – giving Shasta trouble, she was sure, from the look on Shasta's face and the way her fists dug into her hips – stark naked and glistening wet.

Before she'd reacted and put her hand before her eyes, in the moment when she'd frozen and forgot what she was saying, she'd seen him begin to turn to see her. Exactly as if he'd been fully dressed, hat and boots, cuffs and collar buttoned, turning from a casual drink at the bar. He hadn't blustered, flushed, tried to cover himself. She'd tried to apologize later, sitting on the stairs with him looking gray and drawn, but not a bit embarrassed. And there'd never been any pretense with him, never any of the flirtatious games she had seen young men play with Gwen, before Arthur. He'd never taken the slightest interest in her as a woman, had never shown attraction to her – or any woman, that she'd ever witnessed.

Well, she reasoned, why should he be interested in her? Perhaps he felt hatred for her, or disgust… but though she'd seen hatred in his blue eyes every day of his time in Emmett's Creek, there had never been disgust when he looked at her. Hardness, as though he instinctively steeled himself against her. Considering whose wife she'd been, she didn't blame him. Did Padlow's death change the way he saw her? Would his lack of romantic invitation still make her feel safe to be with him?

"We can reach another inn around nightfall," Merlin continued, and she pulled her thoughts back to their conversation. "It's the Red House, in Field Springs." He glanced aside at her, a quick light flash of blue eyes and an upturned corner of his mouth. "By reputation, I'd say I'd have to sleep outside your door –"

Was it her imagination, or had he almost said _again_? He had burst into the women's sleeping room very swiftly the previous night, she remembered, and still dressed but for his boots.

"Were you sleeping outside the door last night?" she said, surprised.

His lips tightened in a faint grimace. "Those two were amateurs," he said. "They were eyeing you and me both from the minute we walked in. They discussed their options during dinner, the likelihood that you held our coin, or further valuables, rather than me, the chances you would resist with any real skill in self-defense."

"Which I didn't," Freya sighed, feeling some heat rise in her cheeks.

Another glance under his hat brim, longer but still coolly assessing. "You did well for someone untrained," he said.

She felt inordinately pleased. Did that count as a compliment? _From someone like Merlin, yes,_ she decided.

Then he said, "I could teach you a little, if you wanted." There was silence, then he repeated, almost apologetically, "If you wanted."

"Thank you," she said softly. "That would probably be – useful." Was fighting ever going to be the right thing to do, for her? Yes, maybe. Last night, resistance had come to her instinctively – had she been wrong to do so? Was it right to allow someone to rob you, if you could fight back?

"We can stay tonight at the Red House," Merlin said, "if you prefer it to cooking over a fire and sleeping in the wagon."

If he'd been waiting outside her door, listening for those two women thieves to make their move, noises no one else in the house would have heard, not even the old man or the dog sleeping across the hall, he'd not been sleeping. And after seeing her tucked into the middle of the wagon bed, he'd walked the team several miles down the road before pulling onto a grassy sward and unhitching for a few hours. He'd been up early, again, walking the team to make more progress on their trip, and now he was offering to sacrifice another night's sleep for her preference.

The question was, would she feel comfortable with the alternative he suggested? She felt sure that if she wasn't, he would be able to tell.

On the way to Camelot, she and Gaius had lived out of the wagon just as Merlin was suggesting. She had wondered in a vague way if it would remind her too strongly of Padlow, and the only other trip she'd ever made, the way he'd taken her as his wife in spite of her frightened struggling, had laughed at her halting attempt to discuss their relationship, had casually allowed her to change her destination from Turad to Emmett's Creek, had mocked her labels of husband and wife. Because she meant nothing to him. Gaius, besides being more than old enough to be her father, had always been a thorough gentleman to her, and the trip had proved no different. He was kind and wry and gentle and courteous as ever.

Did she really think Merlin would do less? Or more?

She contemplated the possibility, the very worst that could happen, that Merlin would do as Padlow had, and take her as wife. She tried to imagine him looming over her in the dark, ripping clothing, slapping her hands aside – she tried to imagine further, and couldn't.

What she thought of was the day Padlow returned to Emmett's Creek, and walked into the office where they were talking with Gaius. When Merlin had discovered that his despised enemy was only a skinny girl and a closed door away. He'd been furious, but she'd turned him with a single touch, and he'd never laid a rough hand on her at all.

He'd had opportunities in the Creek to force her. He'd had opportunity just last night after they'd left the Full Cup. He could have climbed into the wagon where she lay. He hadn't. She couldn't really see him reaching for her with the greedy look Padlow had often worn.

And if he did?

She would live. She would hurt, and she would heal. She had plenty of such memories.

Freya had worked hard to behave respectfully toward Padlow without feeling any of it come naturally. And there was nothing – really, nothing – that she didn't respect about Merlin. Some that she didn't agree with, maybe, some that she was sure he was wrong about, but she could understand those things about him, understand his choices.

It would be disappointment she would feel in remembering another such occurrence involving Merlin, disappointment that he would stoop to such a thing, disappointment that he was like Padlow at all. It would come closer to breaking her heart than years of such with Padlow had. But… Merlin taking her as his wife would not be as bad, on the whole, as Padlow had been. She took a deep breath.

"We brought supplies for dinner?" she said. Padlow would have bridled at the question, hollered at her for questioning his planning and judgment, called her names. Merlin merely nodded, waited silently for her to continue. "I can't see spending any more coin to stay at a place that – probably will be? dangerous to us," she said tentatively.

He nodded again, accepting that as her answer without comment.


	5. A Decent Distance

**Chapter 5: A Decent Distance**

The sun had just touched the horizon when Merlin directed the horses off the road into a little patch of calf-high grass, not low enough to ever gather run-off water, and sufficiently enclosed by thick underbrush and a stand of maple trees that he guessed no one currently claimed ownership of it for profitable land.

They could have reached Field Springs in less than another hour; Merlin could see a solitary hilltop windmill that signaled the edge of town. It was still close enough they could go anytime during the night, if Freya changed her mind, and he pointed that out to her as he handed her down from the wagon seat.

She looked, and nodded, but said nothing.

He unhitched the horses and staked them out on long leads as she rummaged in the wagon for supper-fixings. As soon as he had the horses set for grain and water in a bucket, he cleared the grass in a small circle and lined it with stones from the roadside. Then gathered kindling and some larger fallen branches among the maples, and started the fire for her. It was enough to cook the food and heat the coffeepot, not much more. Nights were so warm now that a campfire would be more nuisance than comfort.

As she set to mixing up the batter for flat cakes in a small bowl, he went back to the horses, checked them over for loose shoes or harness sores, strained tendons, and rubbed them down. Nothing wrong with them but old age. They wouldn't have any trouble making it to Turad, but he wouldn't push them, either.

He went to the side of the wagon, where their cask of water was lashed tight, tipped off the lid, and poured a dipperful over his upturned face. It ran down inside his collar and over the stubble of his hair; he scrubbed his face with his hands then dipped a second palmful of water to wash his hands. After drinking a third dipperful, he rounded the cart and stretched out next to one of the wheels, one boot crossed over the other.

She glanced at him and offered a quick smile, leaning forward with her hand hovering over the frying pan placed in the glowing coals to check its readiness. She had the sleeves of her dress up to her elbows to keep it clean while she prepared the meal, and the full skirt puffed around her as she knelt in the grass. She'd set her sun-shielding hat aside, and the white cap was pushed further back from her face.

As the sun set, the firelight reflected in her eyes.

Merlin watched her quick, neat movements, her awareness of his gaze acknowledged by little darting glances under long lashes, that seemed shy but not offended.

He was acutely aware of her experience with the murderer who had taken her against her will, and the similarity of the circumstances they now found themselves in. Had she decided to trust him, to put aside the fear of the risks of every day and its choices, or was she too shaken by the attempted robbery of the previous night to want to stay in an inn reputedly worse than the last?

She rose on her knees to pour the batter from her bowl onto the frying pan, using her long-handled wooden spoon to portion amounts into round cakes that spread, and slowed, and began to form bubbles. She settled back; he remembered the tin plates and forks in their little basket at the back of the wagon, and pushed himself up to retrieve them.

A startled look, a quick frightened jerk backward at the sudden unexpectedness of his movement – she checked her reaction.

But it told him that her decision might have been made intellectually to trust and not to fear, but her instincts were still to expect abuse. When he returned from the wagon to present her with the plates and utensils, he kept a decent distance, kneeling and extending his offering to her.

She smiled at him again, a smile tremulous in its attempt to be warm and welcoming. She was obviously trying to make up for recoiling at his sudden move, yet it had him wondering what it would be like to belong to someone again.

They ate in silence, then Merlin fed the fire a handful of sticks to help heat the water in the coffeepot, and set the grounds in the percolator at the top of the pot. Freya scrubbed the plates with handfuls of grass and replaced them in the basket on the wagon.

Merlin straightened as she returned, faced her slowly and deliberately so he wouldn't spook her again. Maybe she would begin to feel safe if he followed through on his offer to teach her how to defend herself.

"Use your heel on the instep," he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya backed up a step. Wild thoughts flew through her mind – he was giving her advice on dancing, on shoeing horses, he was warning her that he intended to – what?

"What?" she said.

Merlin remained standing still, made no move toward her. His back was to the fire and the sun was far enough gone over the horizon that she couldn't see his face clearly, but his hands hung at his sides, fingers open and relaxed.

Why could she not convince herself that he wasn't going to leap after her and pull her to the ground like a wolf pulling down a doe?

He mimed stomping on something. "Last night," he said. "You were trying to crush her toes with the side of your foot. Use your heel instead, and step down hard and sharp on the insole. But first –" he clasped his hands together and used his right arm to push his left elbow backwards in a swift, jabbing motion – "first, when someone comes behind you, elbow them in the stomach, just here." He set his fingers against the third button of his shirt, just where the ribs came together.

She belatedly remembered him saying, _I could teach you_. Ah. "Elbow to the stomach, heel on the instep," she repeated, nodding to show she understood.

"That's when someone comes up behind you. If they're coming at you head-on, you can do the same thing, only turn and use their momentum against them." He demonstrated, crouching slightly. "Then you make a fist and punch – not the face or anywhere on the head, your hands are too small, you'll probably break your fingers. Punch the neck. And if you're facing a man, bring your knee up hard, right here."

He indicated his meaning, and she flushed so hot she turned her face away from him. The next thing she knew, he had stepped right next to her, was positioning her with his hands on her shoulders.

"I'm going to pretend to grab you, slowly, and we'll go through your responses," he said.

She felt slightly ridiculous. A good strong shudder would shake her free of his light grip. Her foot barely brushed his as she _stomped_, elbow and fist making quick but light contact, her knee rising only minimally. But he was patient, and didn't comment on her self-consciousness.

"Good," he said. "Let's try it again. The more you practice, even in your mind, the better prepared you'll be to meet a genuine threat."

He made her demonstrate the move twice more, a little more quickly each time, til it seemed smooth and natural to her.

"Good," he said again. "Coffee's ready."

She turned, having forgotten about the pot set among the glowing coals and small flickering flames.

Suddenly hard hands took hold of her firmly from behind, yanking her backwards. She felt fingers slip onto her face, moving toward her lips to prevent her scream, and another arm encircled her shoulders – without thinking, she elbowed backward as hard as she could, lifted her leg and stomped down hard, then whirled, reaching over her left shoulder to plant her fist in his throat.

In Merlin's throat.

She stopped her knee from lifting. He took a step back that was almost a stumble, bending double and gulping air in a harsh rasp, hand at his windpipe. Horrified, she startled to stammer an apology, reaching to help him. He stopped her with a pointed finger and a warning look that wasn't much short of a glare, then coughed, spat to the side, and straightened.

"_That_ is how to do it," he said, his voice hoarse from her blow. "You have quick reflexes and you're strong for your size. Next time, don't forget the knee. Then you run. Hard and fast as you can. A man usually won't let you take him twice the same way, and once he's recovered, he'll be mad."

She nodded, twisting her fingers together. With the fire on his face, the scar was more noticeable, making a tiny shadow at the top of his forehead. He moved past her to pick up the coffeepot from the fire with a rag set out for the purpose. He was limping again, more pronounced than before, if she was any judge, and her heart gave a guilty pang – she had stomped too hard.

"Merlin, I really am sorry if I hurt you," she said quietly.

He passed her a cup of the dark, fragrant brew, but didn't meet her eyes or acknowledge her apology. Then took his own cup and moved to sit with his back to the wagon wheel, legs outstretched and boots crossed. The horses munched contently in the darkness somewhere behind him.

She knelt far enough from the fire that the heat didn't touch her and held the cup carefully, waiting for it to cool.

"Tell me something," Merlin said. He was looking into the darkness several feet to her right. "When you felt me touch you, what went through your mind?"

Freya shivered, though the night was quite comfortably warm. "I was afraid," she answered slowly.

"Why?"

She closed her eyes to better remember the sensations. "I felt - _squeezed_. Like your hand would cover my face until I couldn't breathe. And that your other hand would–" Her eyes flew open and she raised the tin cup to swallow a scalding mouthful to cover her confusion and her embarrassment. That his other hand would tear away her clothing, exposing her before throwing her to the ground.

"You feared a loss of freedom," he said quietly. Nothing in his tone indicated he guessed what she hadn't said. "You feared a loss of control. These are things you lost to – to him. For the last six months, you've gotten used to them again, and enjoyed them. You should never be ashamed of fighting for your freedom and control of your – your life."

She considered. Self-defense was what he was talking about. He wasn't wrong about her, but she wondered how much his words reflected his own experiences, too.

"Why do you fight?" she asked abruptly. Then glanced over quickly to gauge his reaction to her question. If he was angry… She hadn't expected a wry grin from him, however fleeting.

"You have to be more specific than that," he said. "Each fight has its own reasons."

If he was going to answer, to talk with her, she didn't want to waste her chance. Any other time he might not put two words together on this subject, but tonight he seemed more willing to talk to her than he ever had in Emmett's Creek. Well… she didn't want to ask about any fights originating in his pain over the loss of his family – that left out anything he'd told her about his hometown, or Agent Arthur, or the Creek.

"You fought in Sage Springs," she ventured.

"I was ordered to," he said, but she wondered at the sudden wolfish look he gave to the dying fire.

He seemed in a generous, relaxed mood – Merlin, relaxed? part of her mind questioned incredulously – so she dared a little further, without meeting his eyes, and trying to keep her tone casual. "The afternoon when Gaius and I were helping in the sick room, we met one cadet who said," she paused, remembering, "that you'd been a lance-corporal til you told off an officer for an order you didn't want to follow."

She risked a glance. He wasn't looking at her, but the fierce scowl was gathering; his arms were crossed over his chest and his jaw was tight. Was she going to lose him on this conversation trail, after all?

"Someone said you were being punished for something on your way back to Camelot," she added, and his scowl took on an element of stubbornness. "I guess… that makes me wonder why you decided to obey the orders to fight."

He turned his eyes, dark in his fire-lit face, on her. There was anger there, furious rage held in tight control. But very little hate.

"Those men," he spat. "Those _officers_, are promoted without the least attention to the ability to lead, to think, or to care." He stood then and strode off into the darkness, away from the road.

Alone, Freya felt the weight of her weariness settle onto her. She left the coffee in the pot for the morning, and the grounds to dry out for re-use, rinsed the cups, then climbed into the wagon with her blanket. With their supper fire little more than embers in ash, the bed of the wagon was too dark to see anything; she waited for Merlin to return for a while, but finally undressed. It was too warm to need a cover, but she drew the woven wool blanket up next to her anyway – maybe it would be cooler toward morning, and she wanted to have it handy.

The trees that were close around the wagon and the road obscured most of the sky above her with their thick foliage. The horses made small and comfortable noises as they blew their breath out and stepped through the grass; crickets and frogs from a nearby stream lent a faint music to the night.

She didn't know when she'd had a more confusing day – or set of days. She was tired of thinking and wondering, worrying and pondering. The family she was traveling to meet as well as the family she'd left behind in Emmett's Creek. And Merlin.

Having fallen asleep, still she felt no fear when she heard him return, didn't stir in her snug bed in the wagon even when she felt him remove a second wool blanket from next to her bare left foot. She heard the whisper of a snap of shaking cloth as he spread it out in the grass next to the wagon, heard the rustle of his clothing and was too much still asleep to wonder if he was taking it off or lying down without undressing.

What woke her more fully, and caught her attention enough to remember it the next morning, was what she heard next. Very quietly, almost under his breath, he was counting.

…..*….. …..*….. …*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"No one remembered how it started," Merlin told her.

Freya clutched her hat against a sudden gust of wind and turned to stare at him blankly. They hadn't spoken at all that morning, through striking camp and passing through Field Springs. She hadn't been trying for conversation, though, nor sulking – though Freya never sulked. He thought she probably felt that she'd upset him by her questions over the campfire, and resolved to tell her enough to explain, it wasn't her fault.

"The feud in Sage Springs," he added, and her expression cleared. She made a neutral noise and faced forward on the jolting wagon seat again. "I was told," Merlin continued, trying to keep the anger he still felt out of his voice so he wouldn't frighten her, "that many of the cadet corps officers were so appointed because of various minor failures or embarrassments in the standing army. Seems our captain was such a man."

"And it was your captain punishing you by making you march without rest?" Freya asked.

He clenched his teeth briefly and shook his head at the asinine punishment, not to answer her question. When he trusted himself to speak, he said only, "Idiot."

"You disobeyed his orders?"

Almost all of them, as far as he recalled. "He regularly compromised the safety and well-being of the cadets under his command," he said, "with his _orders_."

"So why did you fight for him?" She made a gesture and he glanced aside enough to see she was drawing his scar across her forehead to indicate her meaning.

"I didn't fight for him," he said grimly. "Sage Springs let their feud get way out of hand, and lots of people were hurt or robbed blind, or worse. The cadets ordered to restore peace and recover Agent Lancelot were kids, most with no experience beyond childhood fistfights and the training ground at the barracks. Those boys carried clubs against tradesmen and farmers, grown men with butchers' cleavers and pruning hooks and harvest machetes. Nathlan acted like he commanded a corps of hardened veterans against crazed invading marauders." Merlin paused to draw breath, to calm himself and regain composure. "I fought," he said, by way of explanation, "to disarm and subdue those actively involved in the feud with the least risk to the cadets in the unit."

Freya nodded slowly; but how could she understand? He shrugged, settling back into a slouch on the driver's seat, flicking the reins and clicking his tongue at the horses.

"Sometimes those goals and your captain's orders didn't match?" There was a note of subtle amusement in her tone.

He showed his teeth in a hard grin. "Sometimes."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

They were - Freya calculated because she had nothing better to do, riding on the driver's seat of the wagon mostly in silence - about two days' trip north of her hometown. Merlin was walking at the horses' heads as he had since their brief stop for the midday meal, his boots kicked up dust in the wagon-trail road.

Padlow had taken a more southern road in driving from Redwillow to Emmett's Creek, which lay in the opposite direction from Turad. So this countryside was all new to her – thick quiet forests giving way to wide green fields, startled does to curious rabbits and squirrels, to placidly grazing beef- and dairy-cows – and soon she'd be further east than she'd ever been. Would Turad be the same as Camelot?

The wagon rolled over a smallish hill to reveal an unexpected spread of valley; it might take them til nightfall to cross such a wide expanse. There was a small town nestled in the bottom of the valley, with the road winding down and through it and beyond. Most of the land was laid out in the orderly rows of orchard trees or plowed fields, as far as she could see, accompanied by farm- and ranch-houses.

"What town is this?" she asked, at the same time as Merlin halted, the horse on the left nudging him forward a half-step before they both took their chance to stop and rest.

After a long moment Merlin spoke, a single word, clearly and dispassionately. "Ealdor."

Ealdor. That was a name she knew, though she'd never been there, and hadn't heard anything about it, not even its name, from Merlin. His hometown. He showed no sign of continuing on, his arms hanging motionless at his sides, his head still, not turning to take in any of the landscape.

Freya hesitated, then slid the knotted reins she'd held for safety's sake around the brake handle, and climbed down to the road. Coming around the horses' heads, she kept her eyes on Merlin for any reaction. She no longer worried that he'd lash out with a fist or open palm if she said the wrong thing, but she knew he dealt with dark memories and pain as deep as her own once was, and she had no desire to hurt him in reminding.

His eyes were fixed on some distant point, the blue light and clear. Wherever he was at the moment, he wasn't there beside her, in front of the team of grays, standing in the dust of the road. His jaw was tight, but there was no anger or anguish in his expression. Just quiet contemplation.

She turned her attention to the town in the valley, homes and outbuildings scattered among the trees and rows of fields, clustered ever closer together with their increasing proximity to a town square, a main street with storefronts much like Emmett's Creek. She looked back at Merlin, who hadn't moved or even shifted his gaze.

How would she feel about going back to Redwillow, and the small house where she'd found her mother's lifeless body, early one unnaturally quiet morning? Or, more comparably, how would she feel if coming upon the dark clearing where Padlow had chosen to camp for the night, choosing also to take her to wife in spite of her pleas and struggles. It wasn't the same; she remembered little of that place, and nothing would distinguish it from a hundred other such clearings across the land she'd traveled, then and now. It had never represented home and safety, before that night, the way Merlin's home had.

"Will you show me?" she said quietly, so he could pretend not to hear her if he chose. "Show me your home?"

He turned his eyes on her, the blue of his gaze light despite the shade of his hat, but she doubted he saw her at all. His head turned back again, as if of its own accord, his eyes drawn to the same far spot.

"I can't," he said. He took two steps forward, three, four, and didn't seem to have any idea he'd moved. The horses nudged Freya into following, slightly disappointed and beginning to feel sorry for him that he couldn't even - "I burned it," he added in the same vague tone.

Shock scorched through her. "You – what?" she said.

He lifted his hand to point, exactly where his gaze was fixed, as far as she could judge. "They tried to clean it," he murmured. "I couldn't see anything but the blood. Always… the blood. While it was still mine, I slept in the barn…"

His voice trailed off, and she saw the moment he came back to himself, hard and fast. He drew in a deep breath through clenched teeth, let it out in a tuneless whistle, squinted his eyes, then offered her a cheerless grin. Without speaking, he returned to the wagon, climbed to the driver's seat and disengaged the reins from the brake. He leaned over to give her a hand in assistance as she lifted her skirt carefully free of the wheel and any axle grease.

After a couple of minutes of downhill driving, not so steep that Merlin had to apply the brake to keep from rolling onto the horses, but definitely at a faster-than-usual clip, he offered, without looking at her, "It's a ways out of our way."

"Please?" she ventured. She wouldn't go so far as to ask after the location of his family's graves, or propose a visit there, but maybe if they spent an hour or two here in town he might come to better terms with his loss.

"Nothing to see," he said noncommittally.

She said nothing further. If he was set against revisiting his past in this town, she would not push. That would accomplish nothing but antagonism from him, and he still wouldn't share any of his burden with her.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was determined to pass through Ealdor as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. He'd even thought about going a couple of days out of their way to avoid the whole area, but dismissed the idea as too cowardly. He'd face what needed facing, but he didn't have to look too closely. And he'd try not to think, or speculate. Or remember.

And of course, he wouldn't stop.

So _why_? his rational mind asked, when irrationally his fingers pulled reins to lead the team off the road a good two miles before they reached town. And continued to guide the grays along the grassy track, past fenced cattle-meadows dotted with daisies, and rows of floppy-leaved cornstalks – knee-high by solstice they'd be, as was proper.

And the warm sun and the smell of the earth… maybe he could lie in a ditch somewhere here, just lie and watch the sun wheel by overhead, at night the phasing moon and stars, watch the grass grow til his eyes closed on everything and the grass grew together over him.

Beside him Freya said slowly, "What did you mean, when you said – you burned it?"

He could still feel the heat on his face as he stood in the half-plowed field, mud heavy on his boots, Arthur's blood still staining the fingers of his right hand. Smelling his own sweat, and fear, and the kerosene from the barn that had splashed on his clothes in the pouring. And the old sway-backed plowhorse snorting behind him to smell smoke and hear the higher-rising flames crackle through the empty remains of his life.

"I was fifteen," he told her, blinking away the fire-images from the backs of his eyelids, adjusting his grip on the reins so the wagon would roll down the middle of the track instead of tipping dangerously toward the ditch. "You won't be surprised to hear no one volunteered to foster me, even at the price of the farm. Nor would I have stayed, in any case. I – resisted the agent sent to bring me to Camelot."

"Arthur?" Freya said, but not as if she was guessing. Had the agent told her? No matter, Arthur and Gaius both knew; either could have told her these details at any time last fall.

"The land would be sold," he continued. "That was there before my father broke ground, be there long after any memory of any of us. But the house… and all… It wasn't right anyone else should live there."

A sudden lump in his throat cut off his words – but what more was there to be said, anyway? – stuck and burned til tears started in his eyes in spite of himself. He brushed them away roughly, angrily.

…..*….. …*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*…..

It was a measure of his distraction, that he didn't shake off the hand Freya laid on his sleeve, intending to be comforting and supportive.

They rode through shade-mottled sunlight down the winding track that curved to the northeast of Ealdor. But for his occasional twitch of the reins to keep the horses on the road and moving forward – albeit slowly, as if they sensed their driver's inattention – she could have believed him insensible to all around him.

He'd been so young to face such a tragedy alone, she thought. To face life alone. And what she knew of the three years since – how would he handle this crisis? She could see that he'd never coped properly with his grief, yet the rage at the murderer had mostly drained away in the six months since she'd seen him last.

How could she help him?

Through the trees just ahead, she could see a cozy white ranch house with a square inset back porch, and the new-shingled roof of a secondary building, maybe a barn, further off to the left. The track curved into the yard between house and barn, the two grays slowly pulling the wagon into view.

Freya knew little of _normal_ country living – her life having been limited to town residence, when she wasn't sequestered in Padlow's hovel - but she could see that the bare ground was swept neatly. A handful of chickens pecked in the open door of the barn; there was a carefully-tended kitchen garden to the south of the house, all looked to be well-cared for.

A young woman crossed the yard to the square porch as they came into view, a small child in a baby-gown carried perched on her expectantly-rounded belly. Her curls bounced against her ears as she turned to watch their wagon leave the shady track for the open yard. They were close enough for Freya to mark the young woman's expression change from curious interest to uncertainty, to something approaching outright fear. Her grip on the child tightened, and she ran the remaining steps to the porch, crossed it quick as thought, and had the house door slammed behind her before they'd even come within twenty paces.

Startled by the woman's reaction, Freya turned to Merlin – and froze. His whole body was pulled tight as the skin on a drum, fingers nerveless on the reins. His eyes, glittering from dark pools of shadow under the brim of his hat, were fixed on the closed door, horror stark on every line of his chalk-white face.

What was on his mind? A similar farmhouse, his own mother? Had she hurried Merlin's sisters inside and barred the door, or had she come out on the porch, removing apron to welcome a visitor? Freya thought she knew the answer. If Merlin's mother had barricaded the family indoors, his father might have had a chance against Padlow.

Maybe something of the same idea had occurred to Merlin.

As the horses followed the curve of the yard, past garden and porch, circling to corral and barn, Merlin's face turned, eyes riveted on the door, gaze sliding past Freya's face, body turning on the driver's seat til he seemed in danger of falling off. Freya grabbed the front of his shirt to balance him; his knee pushed hers far to the side til she was clinging to him to keep from tumbling off the wagon herself.

"Merlin!" she gasped.

He turned blank eyes on her for an instant, then straightened himself on the seat and pulled the team to a halt. Her grip on his shirtfront kept her on the seat til the wagon stopped and she regained balance, then she let go.

"Do you think she recognized the team and wagon?" he said to her bleakly.

The team and wagon – Padlow's. At least, they had been. She remembered that this was still the region, the edge of it, for Padlow's tax farm – he would have come to collect, after Merlin's fiery departure, up til last fall. And on top of the terrible memories Merlin carried of this place, he was prompted to wonder if he'd just been mistaken for his enemy – and if his own mother had reacted as this young mother had…

"She has nothing to fear from me," he burst out hoarsely. "Not from me."

Freya turned to face him squarely, placing her fingertips on his jaw line, leaning forward so her face would fill his vision. "She'll know that soon," she said quietly, confidently.

A man emerged from the barn behind Merlin, big but not overly bulky, dressed in the boots, vest, and broad-brimmed hat of a rancher, who glanced at the house where the woman had disappeared before turning to them.

"Merlin," Freya continued in the same low tone, "we don't have to stay –"

A scream interrupted her, a muffled cry from the house, followed by a series of groans, rising in pitch and duration. Then there was silence.

Merlin and Freya were both down from the wagon before the man reacted – ignoring them to race to the door. Merlin stood like a statue, but muttered one word.

"Go."

Freya snatched her skirt to her knees and ran to the porch, gaining it just behind the rancher. He reached to yank open the door; she darted through behind him, but when he paused in fear or uncertainty, she moved around him.

A solid wood table blocked most of her view of the young woman, who lay panting and moaning on her side in the doorway of the kitchen and the room beyond. The child, a curly-haired little girl, sat bemused next to her mother, two fingers hooked in the corner of her mouth. She looked up with wide eyes as they burst into the room, but clearly the little girl was in no danger. The rancher moved forward more slowly than Freya did, just behind her as she knelt next to the mother.

"How close is your time?" she questioned, trying to keep her voice calm.

The woman groaned again, rolled to her back as her knees drew up. She pressed her hands to her abdomen, one at the lowest place, the other at the very highest under her breastbone. When she shifted back to her side, Freya noticed a darkened damp patch on her faded red flower-print dress. It didn't matter how close her time was; if that patch meant what Freya assumed, the baby was on its way regardless of counted months.

"Is her bed on this floor, or upstairs?" Freya threw over her shoulder to the man, who leaned worriedly over them, hat in hand. The girl child pulled herself to her feet and clung to the top of her father's boot.

"Around there." He pointed to a doorway partially concealed by the open kitchen door.

"Can you carry her?" Freya said.

The man tossed his hat onto the table atop a wooden-handled knife and a stack of garden greens, nodding and running a nervous hand over a scruff of brown hair not much longer than Merlin's. He knelt and gathered the young woman close, soothing her gasps. He lifted her and turned to carry her from the kitchen, leaving the little girl standing on her own.

Sober brown eyes inspected Freya, then turned to watch her parents disappear into their room. Unsure if the child should be left on her own, Freya scooped her up and followed. The woman was panting as he laid her gently on the quilt covering the bed. The girl in Freya's arms squirmed, protesting her proximity to a stranger.

"Daddy?" Another voice behind Freya, a young voice. She turned to see a handsome youngster, shirt untucked from diminutive trousers, bare-foot and tousle-headed. The boy, slightly darker in coloring than his younger sister, knuckled sleepy eyes and didn't appear disturbed in the least at finding a stranger in his house.

The woman whimpered through her panting, bit her lip on a scream. The man hovered over her, trying to offer comfort but clearly at a loss what he should do, and approaching anxiousness himself.

"Sir?" Freya said. He ignored her, tried to sit on the bed beside the woman; her hands fluttered against him, whether to protest or appeal, it wasn't clear.

She set her teeth. Events had taken a strange and completely unexpected turn; she couldn't quite banish from her imagination a picture of how Merlin had described the kitchen after the murders. She'd never attended a birth; she had no idea if this was all very normal or if the woman was on death's doorstep, but she was determined to prevent another tragedy if she might.

"Sir," she said more firmly, adjusting her grip on the squirming child for one more secure. The man turned. "Take a horse and go for your doctor or midwife, whoever tends women in labor. My name is Freya; I will stay here until you return."

The man rose hesitantly, then jerked his head in assent. He hurried from the room, banging the kitchen door behind him.

"Daddy?" the older boy said, and the little girl started to cry; the woman looked in no condition to be minding either of them. First things first. Supporting the younger child in one arm, Freya firmly pulled the older into the room and shut the door.

"Ssh, sweetie," she consoled the boy. "Hush, now, your mama needs you to be quiet. Can you play here with little sister?" She drew him to a colorful rag rug on the other side of the bed beside a crooked wardrobe.

"Li'l si'ter fuss-fuss," the boy told her confidentially, settling onto his knees. Freya set his sister down as he pulled a carved wooden animal from his pocket.

"Mama needs quiet," Freya repeated, glancing around to be sure there was nothing dangerous within reach; the carved toy was too large to choke on. She turned back to the bed where the woman panted and strained, gripping the quilt, sweat darkening her dress and dampening her brown curls.

"Mama sick?" the boy asked in interest, leaving the toy to the baby to follow Freya. He pulled handfuls of the quilt, trying to climb up onto the bed; Freya restrained him. "Mama gonna get a baby outta tummy?"

Freya couldn't help smiling as she knelt on the bed herself to begin to loosen the woman's clothing. "Yes, pretty soon," she answered, hoping that she was telling the child the truth.

**A/N: Hope you feel better soon, fairygoatmother - and thanks for your review! (and catherineismylion, zoeyagirl, briarpurplerose) – and my other reviewers I've thanked in PMs. I'm glad you like the story – remember a fanfic writer can't tell that unless you let them know (and I'm so glad you did)! **


	6. Valley of the Shadow

**Chapter 6: Valley of the Shadow**

Merlin stood for a moment – or an hour – beside the right front wheel of the murderer's wagon, frozen in uncertainty. The setting sun was warm on the right side of his face, warm through the rough blue fabric of his shirtsleeve, down one trouser leg… horses whickered and stamped in the roomy corral somewhere behind him on his left.

He could still hear the woman's scream echoing in his ears.

A scream as his mother must have screamed. Had some specter of the murderer ridden with them, ridden with _him_? Had he brought death? Here? Again?

Merlin took a single step forward, feeling a dizzy disorientation, and couldn't move more.

If he went into that kitchen, would he find Padlow at work with his bloody knife? Would he find a brown-haired rancher and his pregnant wife, their little child? Would he find Balinor and Hunith, the two golden-haired baby sisters?

_ Where am I? _Who_ am I?_

The rancher rushed from the house, the door swinging wildly and banging behind him. He was hatless, eyes wide with shock. Merlin took two more steps, bringing himself into the man's path as he headed for the barn in a daze.

"She's –" he said to Merlin, licked his lips and started again. "She's having the baby. Need to – go for Doc." His eyes met Merlin's, and focused. "She's having the baby – I need to go for Doc," he repeated, then ducked around him and entered the barn at a run.

Merlin followed, watched him toss a saddle over the back of a beautiful dark brown filly, fumble the straps and buckles.

"Your woman said she'd stay with Helen," the rancher said, glancing up. "You'll forgive me if I observe there's no need for you to go into the house until I'm back?"

"Not unless I'm called for," Merlin said without offense.

"It's just, there are stories," the man said, gathering reins and leading the filly from the stall. "A family was murdered here, years back…" He mounted. "Be back in less than an hour, hopefully." He kicked his mount, clattered across the barnyard, and disappeared through the trees in the direction of town.

Merlin remained in the barn.

It was dim and dusty, horse smell, manure smell. Hay and filtered sunlight. There were two horses – no, three – inside, shuffling in the stalls, crunching feet, whiffling breath. Watching him, probably. It was a larger barn than his father'd had, taller and longer. More stalls. No cows. Doors at the back that would open into a corner of the corral, hill down to the hayfield. But a barn, nevertheless.

The ground felt unsteady under his boots, as if he were trying to walk through a deep-plowed field after a summer downpour. His father might come around the corner anytime – _hurry with the chores son your mother baked a pie for dinner_ – or his mother would call from the house – _Merlin dinner is ready wash and come –_

Was that his sisters giggling in the loft overhead – or only pigeons?

He turned abruptly and stalked out. "He's dead, he's dead," he repeated under his breath, not even sure who he referred to, or who he addressed.

Was it ironic that he unhitched the murderer's horses, easing the tongue of his wagon to the ground that was once Merlin's own? Was it ironic that he brushed those horses down, pumped water from a well dug by his own father at his age, filled the trough in the corral, and turned the murderer's horses loose to graze? Was it ironic that the murderer's widow was inside the home built on the ashes of his, helping another mother expecting to bring new life into the world?

"Damn me, I'm going mad," he gritted between his teeth. His hat felt too tight; he had a pounding headache in a thick taut band across his forehead. He laid his hat in the wagon, rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, and stuck his head under the pump.

Cool, fresh water washed over his head, down his face, down his neck, trickling over the skin of his back, his forearms, his chest. The water was cold, it was real. It was now. He shook the water off, but didn't bother trying to find a towel, just let the warm air dry him as he did the rancher's evening chores. There was no further sound from the house, but lights flickered up in the curtained windows as dusk drew closer.

The sun was just slipping behind the curve of the earth when the rancher returned, followed by an open chaise pulled by a long-eared brown mare. The driver was an older man, portly and florid under a tall hat and mutton-chop whiskers – _not_ the doctor Merlin vaguely remembered, though he didn't know whether to feel relieved about that, or not.

Merlin took the reins of the dark brown filly as the rancher tumbled from the saddle and yanked his back door open eagerly. The doctor, in his black coat despite the warmth of the weather, took longer to clamber down from the chaise, and gave Merlin a kindly wink.

"Don't bother much about the mare, son," he said, drawling a little. "She's used to standing on her own til I return."

Merlin nodded once and turned to walk the filly back to her stall in the barn. He figured the rancher had pushed her on the journey to the doctor's residence, but they'd returned at the pace of a middle-aged mare pulling a heavy man in a buggy. The filly wouldn't need much cooling down.

The rancher was out on his porch, leaning on a supporting post, when Merlin left the barn. He nodded his thanks as Merlin approached, inhaling deeply on a stumpy cigar.

"Don't usually," he said, indicating the cigar. "Helps me to calm, though. Thanks for your help with all –" he waved the cigar in a slow circle to encompass the barnyard – "all this. Boy, maybe, this time. Got one of each already, so it doesn't matter much. Hoping for a boy, though…" He clenched the cigar between his teeth to extend his hand. "Name's Chadin. My wife's Helen. You're welcome to stay the night, ah –"

"Merlin," he said, once he realized from the silence that no other response would do.

"Merlin, Merlin," the rancher repeated, shaking his hand, then removing the cigar in a cloud of exhaled smoke. "Sounds familiar, though I don't know your face. Come on in the kitchen – your woman fixed up a real nice dinner. Couldn't eat much myself, but you're welcome to anything you can fit in your belly." He opened the door and motioned for Merlin to enter, then stopped him with a raised hand. "Sorry, forgot to say, my Helen has a rule about boots inside the house. Hasn't been crazy about getting down to scrub the floor these last months, you know."

Merlin looked down. The rancher was himself in stocking feet, his dusty black boots bent sideways on the porch next to the door. Merlin shrugged and pulled his feet from his own boots, kicking them beside the others.

"Doc's in with Helen, says he'll eat later on. Says things are going fine for the mama and baby, but it'll be a couple of hours yet til he – or she – makes an appearance. Your woman is sure good with the other children, though –"

Merlin entered the rancher's kitchen – smell of warm bread and beef stew, a small wooden horse on wheels with its pull-string limp on the colorful rug, lid of the coffeepot rattling quietly on the stove as the liquid inside bubbled. Woodbox in the corner half-full, one of the four chairs at the table askew.

And Freya stepped into the kitchen from a room further in the interior of the home.

Her head was bare, dark hair curling down onto her shoulders, a serenity in her brown eyes he'd never seen there before. A sleeping baby held in the crook of one elbow, the curly head and pursed mouth tucked close against Freya's neck. An older boy followed, hand folded confidently in Freya's free hand, chattering unintelligibly. Her eyes met Merlin's. She smiled, her heart full and happy there for him to see.

The room reeled – he reached for a wall, a doorframe, his hand found nothing.

A kitchen, a mother. Two trusting babies. Welcome for a stranger.

And bloody violence followed after.

His eyes dropped to the floor – clean-swept, even in front of the stove and woodbox. Toy horse on the rug.

Blood. Tiny bodies, unnaturally still, unnaturally twisted, a mother's hand outstretched, never to caress soft curls again.

Freya's hand on the little boy's curly hair, her eyes now questioning, concerned.

Freya on the floor, black curls soaking in a pool of blood, brown eyes dark and blank, face frozen in agony.

The murderer was dead. Powerless. And Merlin had never touched woman nor child with intent to hurt.

_What new hell have I entered now?_

Burning, burning. He'd burned it all to the ground.

This home was new, was fresh. This family untouched, happy, whole. Growing, even.

Flies in the blood, pooled dark and sticky. Splattered across the rug, the furniture, even the waiting firewood. His father's body had been left tied in one chair, head tipped back at an impossible angle.

Merlin looked up from the floor, up, away, anywhere. Clean, new floorboards. No blood. White-washed walls…

His eyes focused on the one ornament hung on the kitchen wall, just above the family table. It was a large iron tree, the metal worked in imitation of branches and leaves…

That tree had hung in their kitchen. Had been polished carefully by his mother, humming and smiling as the baby learned to crawl, and the older sister clapped her hands and danced encouragement.

That cross had witnessed the murderer cross the threshold, grip and wield the knife. And his family was dead.

Had blood spattered the tree?

He was only vaguely aware of Chadin, the rancher still chatting behind him, leaving the doorway yet still on the porch with his cigar. Freya moved toward him, hampered by the two children, concern deepening into worry.

Behind a closed door hard on his right, a woman's moan rose into a shriek, swiftly cut off.

Merlin wheeled, hands finding the doorframe, pushing himself through, out into the open air. He felt a stabbing pain in his chest as he gulped for breath, the acrid sweet smell of cigar smoke – thick black kerosene sweat-scented smoke – and he stumbled from the porch to the packed dirt of the yard.

Three years ago he'd slipped out the seldom-used front door to avoid the boring politeness of company for dinner, the questions that made him feel inadequate as a boy, a son, a person – _Big help to your father, aren't you? Going to follow his footsteps and farm the land someday? Got your eye on a girl yet? Make your parents proud?_

_You can't run,_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind. The same voice he'd heard three years ago, when his life had ended.

Why hadn't his life ended?

_I'm not running. I'm walking_, he argued. _No one in that house is in any danger._

_As long as I'm not there._

If the rancher had suddenly clapped a hand on his shoulder, unexpected from behind, would he have reacted fighting? Right there in the kitchen, Freya watching in shock, protecting the children, baby on the way in the next room, the expectant father forced to defend himself against a wild stranger.

He saw himself as he'd been reflected in Percy's plate-glass window – haggard, hard-eyed, dangerous. _Who am I? Who in hell_…

Merlin walked on blindly, vaguely aware of earth and twigs beneath his feet – boots left on the porch – the scent of night flowers and approaching rainclouds – chirp and hoot and croak filling the air around him.

If he'd walked away from his cadet unit in Sage Springs, his feet would have drawn him over hill and over flat, here.

Here.

Maybe he should find that ditch to lie down in. Why was he still alive? The murderer was dead… his family was dead. Why did he not join his family? Why did he keep dragging air into his lungs, day after endless day?

The stars were bright overhead when he found that he'd stopped walking. His hands ached – he looked down to see them clutching weathered strips of planking, nailed to horizontal supports, securely pounded, at one time, into the ground.

It was the fence around Ealdor's small shady cemetery. No need of shade at night.

Merlin tumbled over the fence, landing more or less on his feet. No need for the gate. Didn't keep anyone out. Didn't keep anyone in. And no one was here, anyway, not really. Only him.

Yet here was his family, over here in the corner. Someone had put up wooden markers with names burned into them, to match the one of his two older sisters, lost to red fever nearly ten years ago. They'd gone peacefully enough, one in her sleep and the other slipping into a calm delirium in mother's arms before ceasing to labor for breath. Barely a day apart, they'd been buried together, side by side as they'd slept every night.

And these four new graves. That wasn't right. It wasn't right to separate a mother from her babies.

It was illogical, he thought distantly, to think of them lonely and cold, still reaching, they for her and she for them. Surely they were now together, in warmth and light and love and happiness.

And he, by his own choice, outside in the dark. Was it always to be that way? Could he not find his way into the light also?

Grass had grown over the raw scars in the earth. Of course it would, after three years. He remembered none of the ceremony. _Was I even there?_

Merlin dropped to his knees by his father's grave at the edge of the plot. Exhausted and empty, surprised to be alive. Now slipping down to lie on his back, listen to the roaring in his ears, strain to breathe around the tightness squeezing his chest.

Why bother?

The stars blurred; drops burned and cooled down his temples, into his hair. He felt the first two teardrops, then no more. Endlessly, the stars blurred, then cleared, again and again, as the world spun slowly into eternity, and he lay limp and unresisting, waiting to tip off into oblivion.

It occurred to him… that he could take a more active role in his own death.

He hadn't carried a long knife at his belt since the night of the hanging – it had been dropped on the porch of Percy's Place and never retrieved, never sought or claimed. He could, he supposed, break a splinter from one of the fence-posts, unbutton his shirt, lay his heart open. He knew where to slash the inside of his limbs to bleed to death within minutes. He'd seen a girl once who'd attempted to open the veins of her wrists after the accidental death of her only child – that would do the trick also, but it would take longer.

There was the knife in his boot, he remembered, like the one he'd used on Arthur, when he thought he'd killed the agent. He could even the score, roll over to thrust the blade awkwardly into his own back… it wouldn't be the first time he'd felt steel there. He could try to duplicate the wound he'd received on the outskirts of Turad, that rainy night when he'd been robbed and left for dead in a ditch himself…

Why had he not died there? Why had Gwaine seen him, Morgana commanded the carriage to stop?

But his boot knife was in his boot, on the porch. And that led him to think of Freya.

Alone in the world, except for the unknown cousin – in Turad, of all places. With Merlin dead, she'd be welcomed at the rancher's place, a few days anyway. Then she'd be stuck again, this time in Ealdor, left again in a small unfamiliar town by someone she'd trusted. Would she try to settle in Ealdor, starting all over knowing no one, slowly making friends in her shy, quiet way?

Would she try to drive the wagon on herself? Turad was not a friendly place – those taking tolls at the gates and bridges would surely try to cheat her. Would she trust a stranger enough to drive with her? But why did she trust Merlin?

He guessed he'd have to live a little longer.

And didn't notice or care when sleep claimed him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Something wrong with your man?" the rancher said, puzzled, staring after Merlin. Freya stood beside him in the doorway, swaying gently to rock the sleeping baby. They watched Merlin stalk into the gathering twilight, disappear around the corner of the house. "He left his boots."

"Yes," she said, troubled. "Yes, there is."

The rancher turned black eyes on her, questioning, evaluating. "Tell me," he said.

"It's not –" she began, and couldn't go on. Not her story to tell, not her secret, not anything Merlin would be happy to have her say.

"Ma'am, it's not that I don't appreciate what help you've given me with my missus and my little ones, I do. But my lady is down, and there's another little one due any minute. I need to know how concerned I should be about you and your man being around right now. You're welcome to stay, but I need to know if I should ask you to sleep out-of-doors, and lock up my house and my barn til morning. Being strangers passing through, I guess you wouldn't know this land has a history. The stories I could tell you –"

The rancher's face went slack, his eyes blank for a moment, the cigar sagging from his lips. Then he looked at her, gaze sharpening. He chewed the cigar, then addressed the child trailing behind Freya.

"Donny, run outside and play for a little while."

"Otay, dada, Donny wun an' pway!" the boy agreed cheerfully, darting out the door.

The rancher dropped the cigar down to his side, leaning through the open door into the room while keeping his trailing smoke outside. "Your man said his name was Merlin," he said to Freya in a low voice. "Would he be the same Merlin as the son of the family murdered in the house that used to stand here?"

She nodded.

The rancher opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by another groan-rising-scream ripping out from the bedroom next to them. Silence followed, broken only by the playful shouts of the boy outside, the near-snoring of the baby on her shoulder, and the rattling of the coffee lid. Freya thought the rancher was holding his breath; she knew she was.

Was it panting she heard from the bedroom, or the pounding of her own heart? Another short gasp, unmistakable, and the low rumble of the doctor's voice, encouraging. And then – oh, thank goodness! – a slap of skin, and the newborn wail of outrage. The rancher, his pale face flooding with joyful color as a grin started and widened, held up a single finger as a request for her to wait on his return, and slipped into the room.

The little boy came clattering onto the porch, skidded to a stop. "Where's dada?" he asked her. "Sun go ni-night. Tan't pway inna dark."

The rancher returned more swiftly than Freya expected, holding out his cigar apologetically. "My Helen's fine," he said, still grinning. "She can kick me out for bringing cigar smoke into her birthing-room, she's just fine. A boy, ma'am, a fine boy. Little small, but plenty start life a little small. He's strong, though, a fighter." He leaned out the door over his son's head and flicked the stub of the cigar out onto the dirt of the yard.

"Mama gotta baby outta tummy?" the little boy said, dark eyes wide. "We gotta 'nother one baby?"

"Another one baby," Freya agreed, smiling herself. Feeling a little dizzy, actually, it was hard to feel relieved and pleased and happy for this family, and tense and worried about Merlin, and what would come for him, for them, tonight and tomorrow.

"Doc'll get them cleaned up, then we can visit a little before bedtime, how about that?" the rancher said; it wasn't clear whether he was addressing his son or her.

"I'll put Anna Jo in the crib in the sitting room," Freya suggested. "So the noise won't wake her." She moved into the dim sitting room.

From the kitchen she heard the rancher say, "Wait for dad, now, Donny, don't go in Mama's room yet." So she wasn't surprised when the man's shadow darkened the doorway. "Ma'am? Still need to know if your man intends trouble. Why are you here? Why did he come back?"

Freya laid the baby down, soothing her with a hand gentle on her back, pulled a soft knit blanket up over her. She waited til she reached the doorway again to answer, also in a low voice.

"He _means_ no trouble." She wanted to be honest without betraying Merlin's trust. "He wouldn't have come here at all if I hadn't asked him to show me his family's land. We're just passing through, Camelot to Turad; we don't intend to stay."

"We were told he was underage when it happened," the rancher said; she nodded. "No one spoke up to foster him, so the land was for sale. No one here wanted it, we were told, so it was cheap, and coming as we did from further south, the stories don't mean as much to us. The house had been burned before we got here, so we built new, and tried not to think of the stories –"

"I don't think he wants the land," Freya said. "And he knows about the fire. It's just – harder than I thought, for him to come back. I'm sure there's lots of memories, I just hoped it would be good for him to think on the good –"

The rancher slapped his forehead. "The tree in the kitchen," he said.

"What?"

"When we started building – using the old foundations of course, we found all sorts of things that weren't burned in the fire," he explained. "Some tools, buckles and hinges and the like. That tree on the wall in the kitchen, we found that too, and Helen liked it so she cleaned it up and kept it, not superstitious at all, just as kind of a link, a tribute, to the family…"

The tree. No wonder Merlin's face had gone so white and emotionless. No wonder he'd turned and fled – the walking pace demonstrated incredible control, under the circumstances.

She wished she could be with him, this night. Be there for him, wherever he was.

Her heart cried.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke aware that he was lying on the ground.

Muscles stiff, bruise forming under his left shoulder blade from a stray stone not shuffled aside. He woke aware of the increased ache in his feet, starting to heal after the hellish march from Sage Springs to Camelot. He woke aware of another's presence before he opened his eyes, and lay still.

There was sunlight on the backs of his eyelids, weak early morning sun, but already the day was warm. He lay, he remembered, in the corner of the graveyard; did it really matter if the unknown person meant him harm? No, he decided, but neither would he simply wait for something to happen to him, now he was awake. He opened his eyes and sat up in one motion.

It was a middle-aged woman, short and pear-shaped, with a light shawl over thin shoulders and a long faded blue skirt falling from wide hips. She stood on the outside of the fence, almost to the corner, arms folded over the edges of the shawl, bright black eyes sharp on him.

He recognized her. She hadn't changed much, just added pounds to her hips, a wrinkle or so to the corners of her eyes.

"Merlin," she said, nodding slightly. So she recognized him as well.

"Iris," he returned flatly. _Ma'am_, would have been more appropriate; it was what his mother would have required. But his mother wasn't here.

"Knew it was you when I saw you drive past yesterday," she said. "Figured you'd make your way here, sooner or later. Didn't figure you'd do it stocking-footed."

He looked down at his feet. His socks were filthy and ripped, a patch of dark blood marked the blister the loose nail had rubbed into the side of his left foot. It was five miles from the farm – Chadin's ranch – to Ealdor's graveyard, and he hadn't exactly been watching his footing. He wasn't surprised it had bled again.

"Almost thought I was seeing things, yesterday," she continued conversationally. "Took me back twenty years. You look a lot like your father did when he first brought your mama up our lane. 'Course, she wasn't as dark-haired as your lady is."

Merlin lifted his hands from the ground and scrubbed them across his face, disregarding the clumped earth and bits of detritus that stuck to his palms. _She's not my woman,_ he wanted to say. _I don't want to talk about my father. And mama_ –

"Didn't really expect to see you back here," she said, taking no notice of his lack of reply. "Not an easy thing for anyone to face."

He let his hands drop. "It wasn't my choice. I'm taking the lady on to Turad. Didn't make sense taking two more days to go around the valley."

Iris nodded. "Although," she added, "looking at you now, couldn't convince me you _are_ facing it."

"How?" Merlin demanded, on his feet so suddenly she leaned back from him. "You tell me, how do I face something like that? You were there – you saw –"

Her face and eyes softened in infinite sadness. "I remember," she said. "I was coming to spend the morning visiting with your mama. I brought her a loaf of spice bread; I was going to ask after Chloe's cough." He remembered, vaguely, like a dream from long ago – Hunith had been worried about that cough, especially after losing two daughters already to the red fever, years earlier. "I knew something was wrong when I saw your mama hadn't tended the chickens for – a time. And inside – I thought it was all of you. You had as much blood on you as – as if you were dead yourself. And lying so still, there on the kitchen floor –" she broke off, eyes sharp on his face again. "You don't remember."

He remembered the blood. Always that. There was so much. But after – he remembered little. There were holes in his memory til after he'd been a few weeks with Morgana.

"We'd have fostered you," Iris said suddenly, surprising him. She reached as if to touch his face, cup his cheek in a motherly way, but he jerked back, glaring hotly. The sorrow was back in her face. "But you didn't make it easy for folk to care for you, then. Nor now, I'm thinking."

"I didn't ask for anyone to care for me," Merlin said roughly.

She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes as she walked back through her memory. "That was hard on your mama," she said. "After the fever took your two older sisters, she wanted so much to give you all the mother's love and attention she had. But your father, he was determined, if you were going to be his only son, his only child, he was going to make sure you learned your responsibilities." She sighed. "Your mama used to say, you were both too much alike to get along well. Hard and stubborn. Your mama wanted you to be able to love your father, and see he loved you."

"I did love my father," Merlin said, before he knew he was going to speak. "I knew he loved me."

Iris raised an eyebrow. He scowled; he didn't owe her an explanation. How could he explain to anyone what had confused him even then? His mother, smothering him with petting and polishing, his father unyielding in his demands for more and better.

"I should've been there," he mumbled, drawing his hand roughly over the stubble of his hair. "I shouldn't have left, or spent the night by the creek. I should've been there."

"Oh, my boy," Iris said, once again reaching out. He took half a step back, turning his shoulders so she couldn't reach him over the fence. "I knew Balinor and Hunith well. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for them that night, but in their place, I would _never_ have wished my son there to share in something like that!" Her vehemence startled him; he dropped his hands to his sides. "I am convinced that your father and mama both were thanking their lucky stars you'd left, and hoping for all they were worth that you wouldn't come walking back in to your own death."

Watching the murderer's hands destroying those two baby girls, his hands on Hunith with Balinor tied and helpless. Thanking… _lucky_…

"Ah, boy, your face right now would break your mother's heart," Iris said, sighing again.

He'd known that for years, known that he wasn't what they would've wanted. But he didn't have to stay and listen to someone else say it out loud. He stalked toward the gate, stepping over carved stones, weaving around the higher wooden markers.

"Your mama had high hopes of the man you'd someday become," Iris said after him, raising her voice. He could pretend not to hear, but she knew he could. "I hope she passed without considering that their deaths might drive you to this."

Merlin left the gate unlatched behind him. He passed a shaggy pony and a two-wheeled cart in the yard next the cemetery, and veered away from the road to tramp through field and garden and yard. He had no idea if Iris had plans for her morning in town, but the last thing he wanted was for her to catch him up on the road and keep talking as the pony jogged along. And cross-country, he could avoid other folk easier.

As he walked, not hurrying but not lagging either, he discovered that he felt better. As if he'd taken a dive into a waterhole just after the spring melt. Not fully rested, though he'd forgotten when he last felt that, but not so completely exhausted. And not nearly so confused and foggy as he'd felt driving into Chadin's yard, walking into his kitchen.

It _was_ Chadin's ranch, his yard, his outbuildings. His kitchen. Balinor's fields had been turned – by nature, but also by design, Merlin suspected – into grazing land for a herd of horses fairly fine for the area, and for Chadin's main livelihood.

The grays were rested; he himself could travel all day on what little poor sleep he'd gotten. If Freya was ready, they could leave without further delay, leave all the memories behind, undisturbed.

Merlin's feet were battered enough that walking anywhere would pain him for a while, but the long thick grass eased his soles somewhat. He came up to the ranch from the east, through the gap between the side corral and the two-story house, and stopped, just inside the packed-dirt yard.

It was very quiet; the doc's cart and the long-eared mare were gone. The chickens scratched for feed, the horses stepped around the corral, but there was no sign of the rancher. A slight sound caught his attention, a rattle of pebbles from the direction of Freya's wagon. He stepped closer and knelt on one knee to check beneath it.

The little boy, three or maybe four years old, sat drawing in the dust with a bent twig. He was wearing Merlin's dusty brown boots, which came up past his knees, and his hat from the bed of the wagon, which settled around the boy's ears. He looked up, startled into a guilty expression, then grinned in unabashed delight.

"Got a hat an' boots!" the youngster crowed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When Freya woke, the morning sunlight was streaming in the sitting-room window.

Little Anna Jo was still asleep in the crib in the only shady corner. The two-person settle under the window wasn't much smaller than her bunk below Gwen's, or her corner of the box bed in Padlow's hut. She was stiff and her neck and left shoulder ached, but her muscles would loosen as the day went on.

The house was quiet as she stepped into the kitchen; it didn't look like anything had been moved since she'd done the washing up, a little before midnight. She listened for a moment at the bedroom door, heard a faint masculine snore. Then silence. She smiled; everyone was exhausted from the ordeal of bringing a new baby into the family.

The outside door was ajar; she pushed it open against the outside wall of the corner of the bedroom and stepped onto the porch, her mind already on Merlin. Where had he gone? Where was he now? And in what state of mind? What would she do if –

And she saw him, halfway across the yard, squatting on his heels with his head turned away from her. She stepped down from the porch, walked slowly across the dirt-packed barnyard as though approaching a wild animal momentarily at rest, circling slightly so she didn't come up from behind him.

Then she saw Donny, kneeling in the shade of the wagon, wearing a pair of boots and a broad-brimmed hat laughably too large for him – Merlin's. The boy scratched in the dirt with a stick, looking up to laugh delightedly into Merlin's face.

As she neared, she saw that Merlin's socks were bloodstained, that clothing, hands, and face were filthy and scratched. But the look on his face was a slight smile for the little boy; he looked up at her and let the smile stay for a moment.

"Are you all right?" she said, still keeping some small distance between them. She wanted to throw her arms around him, burst out how sorry she was for asking to come, for the shock of the decorative iron tree on the wall, for all that had happened to him. But she couldn't; he wouldn't take that from anyone. He might tolerate it from her, but he wouldn't thank her for it.

He dropped his eyes at the question. And because she was standing and he was crouched down, that meant she could see no part of his face for a moment. Abruptly he pushed himself upright, crossing his arms over his chest, his face once again hard as stone, and unreadable.

"Are you ready to leave?" he said only.

Freya made herself stop twisting her fingers. She was sorry for the hurt he'd felt again at their arrival and the immediate crisis following, but seeing him so calm this morning made her wonder if it was good for him to face the memories instead of running again. She wavered over the request she was about to put to him - as she had for hours last night, listening to Chadin voice his concerns - whether to mention it to Merlin at all. But she was pretty sure he'd take _hearing_ it calmly… and then… it would be up to him.

"I wanted to talk to you about that," she ventured. "Helen had her baby last night – I guess Chadin told you? – but after he was born, well, things were a little – different – than normal…" She risked a glance at him, but if his expression held anything, it was patience. "I wondered if you minded greatly if we – stay a few more days? To help out?"

Merlin closed his eyes, tipping his head back slightly.

"I know I'm asking a lot," she rushed on, feeling a little breathless. "If you really don't want to, we don't have to, but… Doc said it would be best for Helen, if she didn't… Chadin said there was one or two women who might be able to spare a few hours occasionally, til Helen gets her strength back and can get up and do things herself, but I thought, since we're already here…"

He opened his eyes and stared at the sky, or maybe at the tops of the trees. "Hell," he said softly, and she wasn't quite sure how to respond. But he continued in a quiet, tired voice, "If you want to stay, we can stay."

Freya put her hand on his sleeve, enough so he could feel she'd done so, but not actually touching him through the cloth. "Are you sure?"

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes, still gazing into the distance. "I guess we'll see."

**A/N: I have company coming for a long weekend. So I'm going to **_**try**_** to stick to the every-other-day update schedule, but… no promises… **


	7. Farewell to Ealdor

**Chapter 7: Farewell to Ealdor**

Two days they stayed. Sometimes paradise, sometimes purgatory.

And sometimes the unexpected shift from one to the other left Merlin dizzy, like an emotional stagger.

The exhilaration of helping Chadin break in one of the young stallions in his herd – of riding bareback, fill tilt across the range, hat long gone and eyes streaming from the wind – would crash into abrupt and painful shock as he finally managed to rein the horse in, only to realize he'd arrived at his mother's favorite picnic spot by the low creek. _Chloe running around picking daisies for a chain, tossing them onto their sleeping father's chest, the baby toddling behind her sister, bringing tattered petals… their mother's indulgent smile for them, and the gentle look for the son too proud to join in…_

Or he'd be in a black mood, seeing his family out of the corner of his eye no matter where he turned – _father forking hay in the barn, mother with a clothespin in her mouth at the laundry line, calling warning to the little sisters playing in the yard_ – hearing their voices, their laughter. And Freya would come out to the porch with the curly-haired little girl, tickling and laughing and cuddling, sitting with bare feet in the dust as she teased the child in her unsteady toddling runs after the chickens.

Freya left off her cap since they weren't traveling dusty roads, and had no occasion to wear her hat. Her black hair was long enough to pull back in a braid, though there were always strands that escaped around her face. She looked happy, whenever he saw her, more alive and more _real_, somehow, than he remembered her in Emmett's Creek.

Merlin thought that independence agreed with her.

He didn't enter the house again except to slip in and out of the bathing-room that had an outside door for easy access. He did his best to focus on the task at hand, focus as small as he could, on tools, on hands, on animals, on food. Not on the place he was in, not on familiar landscape or memories that fluttered perpetually on the edges of his mind, deceptively soft… and sharp. He took his meals on the porch and slept in the bed of the wagon and avoided conversation with Chadin and Freya both.

Visitors came, as news of the new baby spread, and Merlin avoided them, too. He didn't care to meet any who might recognize him; he wasn't sure if Iris or Chadin had told anyone he was back. The doctor came again the morning after, and Iris the second afternoon.

She stayed to help Freya hang out laundry – sheets and diapers, tiny clothes, little clothes, rancher's clothes. A dress or two. And on the end, Freya's dark blue dress and Merlin's spare shirt, sharing a clothespin between them, holding cuffs together.

Chadin and Merlin were occupied that afternoon in the barn, paring and cleaning the hooves of the herd for shoeing.

"Hello?" called a man's voice from the open door of the barn, streaming daylight to the farthest corner of the last stall.

"Back here!" Chadin answered.

"Brought Cora by to see the baby," the newcomer explained. Merlin heard boots strolling closer, kept his head down, focusing on the hoof clamped between his knees. "Hope Helen and Ma don't scare her too much with talk of the birthing."

Chadin grunted from his place across from Merlin. "How long til Cora has your baby?"

"Doc says before harvest," the man answered. "Cora wanted to walk over, get a little exercise, but we'll ride back in the cart with Ma." As far as Merlin knew, the only visitor at the ranch was Iris; but if this man was calling her Ma… The visitor scuffed the bottom rail of the stall where Merlin was working with one boot. "I didn't believe it when Ma said you were back, Merlin, but she insisted it was you."

Merlin let the hoof drop, and straightened. And said his friend's name for the first time in years, "Will." He sounded grim to his own ears, but aside from leaping the chest-high stall wall or flattening the man pushing through the gate, he was trapped.

He remembered William as a stocky youth, a few years older, but their nearest neighbor and his only playmate as a child, whenever their fathers let them have an hour or two of freedom at the same time. He'd spent as much time at their farm helping with chores as Will had spent helping him. He might have been fostered in their family, called Will brother, had he not –

The young man was just as stocky as the youth, shoulders broad and chest deep, and the easy grin was the same. He pushed his hat back, brushing his fingers through the brown hair flopping over his forehead to indicate his amusement at Merlin's haircut.

"How was your time in the corps?" he said.

He appreciated that Will hadn't taken an attitude of commiseration or sympathy over Merlin's loss. So, joking himself, he told him in two words, words he couldn't have used had the women been present. Will tipped his head back and guffawed, and Chadin came to hang his forearms over the top rail of the stall, grinning himself.

"Well, we're glad to see you back," Will said.

There was a slightly awkward pause, as Merlin didn't respond; he knuckled the small of his back to ease the crick of bending over hooves for hours.

"Ah – back for good?" Will continued, glancing at Chadin.

Merlin read the look – there was wariness, and caution, in both men. Chadin's land used to belong to Merlin's family; now that he was of age, they were wondering if he was going to make a fuss over ownership of the land. Legally it was Chadin's. Those who were underage couldn't own land, and that included by inheritance, without fostering. But that law was only as effective as the ability of the new owner to hold the land. They were right to worry – they couldn't know if he intended recovering the land by hook or crook.

"Your woman said you were just passing through?" Chadin said.

Merlin jerked his head in a nod. "She has family in Turad, we're heading there."

The other men nodded. "Never been over to Turad," Chadin remarked speculatively.

"I've never been out of Ealdor," Will said wryly. "Say, Merlin, did they ever find out who – I mean, did they ever catch whoever –"

Merlin took a deep breath, filling his lungs, then exhaled as slowly as possible. "You haven't heard from your tax farmer this spring, have you?" he said quietly.

"You mean Pad-"

"He was hung almost seven months ago."

"Ah," Chadin said. Neither of them seemed to notice that both had breathed a sigh of relief. "The reeve mentioned he'd had official communication to expect a new collector. But why –"

"I remember," Will said slowly. "Pa and Mister Balinor used to talk taxes, sometimes… Did your Pa ever say he had proof that Padlow was cheating us?"

Merlin didn't answer. Whether his father could've proved anything or not, Padlow had killed him for it, to discourage any others from resisting what he demanded.

"So – his horses and wagon," Chadin said in a tone of discovery. "I wondered, when I saw those grays."

When a criminal was caught and executed for his crimes, it was commonly assumed that the victims would be repaid from the property – the reason for Freya's troubles in Emmett's Creek. In the case of the team and wagon, Freya could fairly be considered a victim as well as the criminal's widow. But the more Merlin said, the more curious Chadin and Will would be – then more questions, speculations, gossip all over Ealdor. They'd already be talking about his return – with a lady - and the details of the murders for a year and a day, but if allowing misconceptions meant protecting Freya from more gossip, he'd allow it.

"William!" came a call from the yard outside the barn. A sweet, light voice, that made Will flash his sudden easy grin.

"That's my Cora," he explained to Merlin. "Her family moved here about the same time as Chadin and Helen came. She's expecting our first baby." He seemed to swell visibly with pride. "Well, glad you see you, then, Merlin." He reached over the stall. "You're welcome to come by any time, stay as long as you like."

Merlin shook the offered hand, liking his friend all over again in spite of himself. "I don't expect I'll be back this way, but I'll remember that."

Will nodded, still beaming. "Hope you have a good trip."

Chadin followed him out of the barn, saying something in a joking tone that made Will laugh ruefully and shake his head. And Merlin couldn't help trying to remember, how long had it been since he'd had a friend, someone with whom he could lower his guard without fear?

He listened to the noise and bustle of a lengthy goodbye out in the yard, a newborn's high, thin wail, a man's full-throated laugh. Then left the stall and slipped through one of the back doors, leaving it slightly ajar behind him. He rested on an uneven bench and leaned against the plank wall of the barn, staring through the horizontal bars of the corral at the distant hills_._

_Why_ _on earth did I come here_? he asked himself. _It's done. The murderer is dead. Why did I survive him? _His pledge and his goal had always been to give his life for the success of his quest for revenge, not to live to old age afterward. Not alone.

Iris' words came unbidden to his mind. _Your father and mama both - thanking their lucky stars - hoping for all they were worth that you wouldn't come walking back in… I hope she passed without considering that their deaths might drive you to this._

_What, then? What? _ He could've died with his family, died in the ditch near Turad. Could've died with the murderer's last breath. _What now? What is there left?_

Nothing. Emptiness. A tearing loneliness inside, ripping a little more with every familiarity here, every memory of happier times forever lost.

And now he couldn't help but wonder what he'd missed.

Thinking back, he couldn't remember any girl of Ealdor that he'd thought of more than any other, couldn't remember any of them except vaguely, a cloud of giggling, colorful butterflies to be avoided on community holiday gatherings. If that one night had never happened… Would he be courting? saying vows? married a year and expecting a child of his own?

Maybe it was true that his parents' dying thoughts – in the middle of the pain and anguish over the baby girls – was to hope that their son might be spared. Yet had he never left the farmhouse, maybe he and Balinor could've taken Padlow – maybe his attempt would've been enough to arrest and convict him… or justify the two of them hanging him quietly behind the barn…

_Stiff bootless feet, body spinning slightly… Arthur's twine still binding the wrists… dried blood on swollen face and shirt-collar… Eyes half-open, expression frozen in shocked disbelief at the end of life. The body was a pitiful lifeless thing, an empty scarecrow. _

He had lived to see his enemy dead.

More likely, had it seemed to Padlow he could not get a drop on both of them, he would have behaved civilly, and returned later with a few bully-boys, or come at night to burn them all in their beds. And there would have been no one to pursue him to a reckoning of his crimes. And he would have continued cheating and stealing from all the folk throughout the region, poisoning neighbor against neighbor… another Sage Springs, even. A tangled countryside of murder and theft.

And Freya –

The barn door beside him creaked and swung slightly. His right hand slipped to his hip before he remembered he wore no belt knife. It said much about his distraction that he hadn't even heard someone approaching through the barn. But did it matter if it was a stranger, a thief, weapon drawn, intent on harm and damage?

He was startled how swiftly his whole being answered that question with a resounding _Yes_! Not here, on this land. Not to this family. If he let himself be killed, where would they be? And Freya –

It was Freya herself at the door, hair down and still barefoot, a napkin-covered plate in her hand, visually searching the distance near and far, through the rails of the corral. And he noticed that the sun had set, and the hills and trees were growing dim with slow-gathering twilight.

Chadin would be sitting with Helen. New baby in the cradle beside her, to rock with her foot as she cut food and coaxed and encourage Donny and Anna Jo to eat. Chadin would get the coffeepot so she didn't have to get up, the two of them sharing what news the day's visitors had brought.

And there was Freya, neglecting her own dinner to heap his plate high, seek him out in the dark.

"I'm here," he said, a little gruffly, relaxing back against the barn.

She jumped a little at the sound of his voice, but was smiling as she turned. "Chadin said you were in the barn, last he saw you." She handed him the plate, letting the barn door swing shut behind her.

He took it without comment, set it on the bench beside him, returned his gaze to the treetops and hills, the single star coming out low on the north horizon off to his left. She watched him for a moment, then stepped over and settled onto the bench beside him.

_If she asks me,_ he thought, _if I'm okay, I will_ –

"We had a long talk with Iris today," Freya said in her low, almost musical voice. "Iris, and her daughter-in-law, Cora. We mostly talked about the babies – Helen's, and Cora's. But – I thought you should know – Iris spoke to me alone for a while. About you."

He gritted his teeth against a curse.

"They – they think that – you and I – that we're – well, there were things Iris told me because she assumed that I was – that we were – that I was in a position of having a right to know." Beside him on the bench, she was twisting her fingers together. "I thought that if I – tried to explain about – about Padlow, there would be a lot more gossip here than you'd like."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I know what they think, and I didn't correct them either. There'd be a lot more questions for you too, personal questions."

"Oh," she said, sounding disconcerted. "I didn't think about – yes, I suppose there would be." She felt silent, and sighed, but kept sending him glances from under her long lashes.

"What is it?" he said tiredly.

"You should eat it before it gets cold," she ventured.

"You've eaten?"

She shook her head, and he shoved the plate over to her. She tried to protest, but he gave her a hard look and she subsided with a slight down-turning of her brows, removed the napkin and picked up the fork.

"Merlin?" she said. After a moment of silence, she went on. "When I asked if you minded staying a few days, I asked if you were sure, and you said, We'll see. What do you think now?"

He let his head fall back against the wall of the barn with a thud, closed his eyes, and concentrated all his energy on remaining perfectly still. When he trusted himself, he said, without opening his eyes, "You want to stay longer? You tell me – am I still sane? Do me a favor – you see me frothing at the mouth, cut my throat. Just do it from behind, so I don't see you coming."

For some moments there was silence, save the sighing of the wind, the clop of horses' hooves moving about the corral, the soft scrape of Freya's fork on the plate. Then she set it aside.

"Iris told me, she was the one to find you and your family," Freya said quietly.

He raised his hands and pressed the heels of them against his eyelids until he saw yellow and purple stars. "I don't… really remember."

"I think she's been worried about you. She said she used to talk with your mother, that she's wondered about you since you've been gone. And there's folks in Emmett's Creek who think –"

Merlin interrupted her with a harsh curse, every word spoken with individual emphasis. And found that words continued to pour out of him, words describing what little he remembered of finding his family dead in their own blood, of striking out when they took him to see the bodies laid out before the funerals. Of the clumsy well-meaning attempts of Ealdor folk to keep him calm and contained until an agent could come for him, how he broke free and returned to the farm, unable to think any further than his father's plans for the next day, and the next.

Break ground in the north ten, plow furrows, plant potatoes.

He told of Arthur, riding across the plowed ground he'd always hated yet refused to leave, the humiliation of being tied hand and foot, flung over the plowhorse. Then there was the keen frustration of being a prisoner, the rising panic of leaving his home and land to strangers, the growing suspicion that nothing would be done about the murders. The sense of urgent responsibility – all growing til the thought of three years' service made him fear for his sanity, made him reach for his boot knife to attempt a nighttime escape.

Arthur's discovery of him, the frightened stabbing of the agent, the burning of his home, and the flight into the dark, heading ever east.

Gradually Merlin came to himself, realized he was talking in circles, his mouth dry and his throat hoarse.

Freya was holding his hand, her fingers laced through his, his fingertips brushing the fabric of her skirt across her lap. She wasn't looking at him, but gazing off across the thickening darkness. There was enough light left that he could see tears rolling down her cheeks. He wondered if she knew she was holding his hand; usually she shied from physical contact as much as he did.

Merlin slumped back against the wall of the barn, clenching his teeth against an uncontrollable inclination of his teeth to chatter with sheer nervous energy. "I'm – sorry," he forced out. "I shouldn't have – laid that all on you."

She was rubbing his hand now, still as if unconsciously. "Please don't be sorry, I'm glad you told me." Her voice was husky, dropped to a whisper. "These days – I know it's been hard for you. Thank you." If he moved a muscle, she would become aware of his hand in her lap, and then – "Helen was feeling much stronger today. She was out of bed all day except for a couple of long naps when Anna Jo and the baby were sleeping." Suddenly she jerked her hands away, slid to the back of the bench.

He said nothing, but laid his palm on the rough wood, curled his fingers over the edge. He did feel better after that outburst, somehow.

Slightly.

"What I mean is, we can leave tomorrow," she added, a little breathlessly.

He would definitely welcome that. There would be no final escape for him, not til the freedom of death, if then. But it would be a relief to be away from the constant reminders.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was almost a full day past Ealdor before Merlin spoke to Freya again beyond the most basic necessary exchange of information.

He had been silent during the farewell to Chadin and Helen, though he shook the rancher's hand cordially and nodded to his wife. Shook his head without speaking when tentatively offered the decorative tree that had been his family's. He was tense and tight-jawed on the ride through town, though they left early enough that most folk were still inside their homes, or too busy to notice them beyond a call and a wave – but there were a handful who recognized him, called him by name, and sent questions after them.

Freya hadn't found sleep easy, that last night. Merlin's words – few enough to describe what he spoke about – were graphically succinct. She understood from Iris that he'd been both stubborn and independent as a boy, which perhaps explained his less-than-rational reaction to the loss of his family, and his attack on Arthur.

It had occurred to her that she'd already been living as Padlow's wife in Emmett's Creek when he committed these murders, and that thought led to a faint but very real sense of guilt. She had known as well as any, and better than many, what violence he was capable of. Perhaps if she'd spoken out, made more of an attempt to reason with him, persuade him, found someone who could stop him…

And hovering around all this thought was the feeling of Merlin's hard lean hand in hers, the strength in his fingers even when he relaxed his iron grip, the calluses that spoke of hard work uncomplained.

Had he reached for her? Or she for him? She wasn't sure, but either option gave her butterflies in her stomach, relieved only by the thought that he hadn't seemed to notice. She'd hoped that they would retain the feelings of openness and closeness, but his taciturnity today indicated an embarrassment at what he probably viewed as a loss of control.

In any case, by the time the afternoon sun was glaring down on them, she was so tired she climbed into the back of the wagon, pillowed her head on her arm, and slept. She slept so hard that she didn't notice when the wagon stopped, or when Merlin jumped down.

"Freya."

She woke to the sound of his voice saying her name, and a slight pressure on her arm. She opened her eyes; he stood next to the wagon, sideways to her, looking back down the way they'd come, and he was moving his hand back from touching her. She struggled to sit upright, squinting in the brightness of the warm sun.

"What is it?" she said thickly.

"Someone's coming," he said absently, his eyes still focused in the distance.

She shaded her eyes and tried to see who he meant. Since leaving Camelot they'd met plenty of folk on the road, passing them or allowing them to pass, or going in the opposite direction. It had never before been an occasion for Merlin to stop and scrutinize; if he was doing that now, something was different. Maybe something was wrong. She could see a cloud of dust, and a rider preceding it. As far as she could tell, there was nothing special about the rider, though he was coming on at a trot that would soon overtake them.

"It's Arthur," Merlin said.

She slid to the end of the wagon to climb down; he walked beside her and handed her to the ground without taking his eyes from the rider. She opened her mouth to express disbelief, to ask if he was sure, but closed it again without saying anything. He wouldn't have said it if he hadn't somehow recognized the agent.

It was some moments later, some distance closed between them, that Freya saw for herself that Merlin was right. She remembered seeing the agent ride into Emmett's Creek alongside Merlin, the leggy chestnut stallion, the piercing gaze beneath the hat brim pulled low against the sun's rays. She dropped her eyes under that gaze as he slowed the stallion to a walk to approach.

"Merlin, Freya," the agent said, dryly but politely, tipping his hat to her.

"What do you want?" Merlin said, not exactly rudely, but not very patiently, either. His hands were on his hips.

Freya looked at him, startled not by the shortness of the question, but the implication. She noticed now that the agent wore no look of surprise at catching them up. Of course he'd known their destination, and therefore their route, but Merlin's demeanor indicated he suspected this was no chance encounter.

"You were making good time til Ealdor," Arthur said. "I figured I'd catch up with you before you arrived there."

Merlin didn't respond, didn't move, but he suddenly felt tense and hard beside her. Without looking, she guessed there was anger in his eyes again, that fierce predatory gaze that said he was looking for an opportunity to fight.

"We're burning daylight, standing here," he said only. "I wanted to make two-three more hours today."

Arthur nodded, gesturing them to continue as though it were his right to allow them, and they returned to the driver's seat. The agent rode beside the wagon where the road allowed, but neither man attempted conversation. To bridge the gap, she asked after Gwen – _Fine_, Arthur said. _Feeling better_. Then, silence again.

By the time the first stars showed themselves, Freya felt ready to cry.

With the arrival of the agent, Merlin had withdrawn into the same angry silence he'd worn when first they met. He wasn't rude to her – never had been, really – but he neglected the small courtesies he'd fallen into when it had been just the two of them, and slipped back into non-responsive defensiveness. It was as though his outpouring of feeling and their unintentional hand-holding had never happened. Once again he had sealed himself off from everyone, and that included her.

"Must have been a hard six months," was Arthur's first attempt at conversation, as they sat down to Freya's hurriedly-assembled stew and flat biscuits. "I've heard stories about Nathlan that would curl your toes. I expect you could tell a few stories, yourself."

Merlin said shortly, "I expect you're right."

More tense silence.

Freya was acutely aware of the history of these two men; because they'd worked together in Emmett's Creek did not mean their truce would continue. In fact, it seemed that Arthur was bent on provoking Merlin; every time he made a comment, he chose Ealdor, Chadin's ranch, and their neighbors as topics. This met first with stony silence from Merlin, then fierce glares.

The last attempt, Freya noticed in alarm, had Merlin feeling at his empty hip as though he intended pulling a knife on the agent again. Arthur noticed also, and grinned as though he found Merlin's reaction amusing, but his eyes were hard and wary when he looked at the younger man.

The agent directed a few remarks to Freya, but she was sensitive to Merlin's mood and volunteered nothing. Finally Merlin made a pretext of checking on the horses, though it was the third time he'd done so, and left Freya with Arthur at the fire. She kept scrubbing the stewpot, angling it so the agent wouldn't know it was already as clean as it was possible to be.

"You had a hard time of it in Ealdor?" Arthur said to her.

Freya glanced over to where Merlin was bent over one of the gray's hooves. "Why do you – say things to try to hurt him? Say things that anyone could see are upsetting to him?"

Arthur gave her a keen look. "You think he could make something of himself? Be someone that many can depend on? Be one of the few truly honorable men, upholding justice wherever he chooses to live his life?"

Surprised, she sat back. Whatever Arthur saw on her face, he nodded.

"Something I didn't recognize when I first met him, to my pain. And shame. He was on a razor's edge, in many ways he still is. Who knows what will be too much for him to handle, or when will be the moment he'll break? And the consequences to whoever is depending on him?"

Freya thought of their first night in Ealdor, his reaction to seeing his family's tree on the wall; he'd been back by morning, though, and in control of himself. "Are you trying to make him break?" Freya said. "Or make him tougher?"

Arthur shrugged, sitting back. "He still owes me. If I'm going to work with him, I have to know he has control of himself."

She shook her head. She understood him, but what did he care if Merlin did break, as he put it? Would he be there for whatever came after? She'd seen Merlin pushed these last few days, seen him pushed in Emmett's Creek. He fought, he paced, he worked, he lost his temper. He might always be close to that edge, though.

Freya watched Merlin drop the hoof and straighten, gazing away from them into the darkness. Watched him decide to stay, to return to the campfire circle, however reluctantly. She set the coffeepot in the coals to heat; Merlin knelt and fixed his eyes on the agent with a faintly ominous air of expectation.

_In a moment_, Freya thought, _he'll demand_, Well?

"Turad," Arthur said. "I'm heading there on official assignment. You may remember I mentioned the possibility?"

"We heard the tolls were getting out of hand," Merlin said.

"There's been complaints to reach Uther's ears," Arthur said. "My writ covers investigation of the complaints as well as authority to adjust Turad's standing laws. There's a judge there that I'll be working with."

"Under?" Merlin said shrewdly.

The agent gave him a wry look. "It's rare for an agent's writ to exceed a judge's authority."

"What do you want from me?"

Arthur reached into his vest, withdrawing a folded paper, passed it into Merlin's uncomprehending hand. "I've an agent's writ with your name on it."

Freya was still gaping at the surprise – the honor – thinking, _no wonder, all his talk of upholding justice and depending on Merlin_.

And Merlin pitched the sheet into the coals without hesitation. She gasped and reached for it as if she'd rescue it, even as it caught the flame. Merlin never took his eyes, dark and narrow with suspicion as they were, from the agent.

Arthur barked a short laugh. "I figured you'd do something like that," he said. "I have the actual writ in my saddlebags."

"No."

"You were in Turad a year and a half," Arthur said, as if he hadn't heard Merlin's refusal.

Freya looked at Merlin, wondering if there were other reasons he'd agreed to bring her on this journey. People he missed.

"From the little your lady there would actually tell me, you became quite familiar with the layout of the city, the lower classes. Working with – under – Judge Alined, I'll have access to the higher classes. Between us, we could –"

"No," Merlin repeated, softly but definitely. Yet he didn't look away from the agent.

Arthur stared back for a lengthening moment. Freya was struck by how similar they were – each absolutely motionless, yet at any moment they could either leap for the other's throat, or roll over and fall asleep. There was a readiness, an alertness; they'd both been trained to be prepared for anything.

Merlin, an agent? He didn't have the personality – or the desire, she suspected – to work well with strangers. Yet he did possess an innate and unyielding honesty, a stubborn determination to complete what he set out to do, that would make a good agent. If he could somehow come to peace with his past.

"I hear Turad has a fine jail," Arthur said easily. "You can serve your time there, if you prefer it to a temporary writ. Last I checked, it was a year for assault on an agent."

Merlin's eyes slid shut, his jaw and fists clenched. Arthur looked past him at Freya, the first either had noticed her since Merlin's return to the campfire. She was never any good at hiding her feelings, and he must have seen how she felt about his threat; he frowned at her.

"It's now," he said harshly, transferring his attention back to Merlin. "I'm trying to do you a favor, putting my reputation on the line to get you an agent's writ, instead of throwing you in jail. But I'd rather that than chase you from here to kingdom come again and waste more years doing it. You pay _now_ for what you did to me, revenger."

"You could just forgive him," Freya spoke up. "Go your separate ways in peace." She blushed at the blank looks both men turned on her, though the dim light from the fire's coals probably hid it.

"What'll it be?" Arthur said to Merlin.

He rounded on the agent, which meant his back was mostly to Freya. She reached for the tin cups to fill with coffee, but heard him anyway, to her embarrassment, heard the words he used to curse the agent, before he agreed with a terse, "I'll do it."

The rest of the trip passed with very little conversation between the three of them, and no incidents, save one.

Freya was involved in packing dinner supplies from the back of the wagon when Arthur approached her soundlessly, and from behind, laid a hand on her shoulder. She reacted instantly as Merlin had taught her, with an elbow to his gut, a heel slammed on the top of his boot, a fist to his unprotected neck – and stopped her knee from rising to complete the defensive sequence.

The agent stumbled back, coughing out momentary pain; Freya began to gasp apologies, and an amused bark, _Ha_! rang out over the camp. When she looked, Merlin's back was turned as he loosened reins at the horses' headstalls, but his shoulders were shaking suspiciously.

Merlin, laughing? She'd never heard him laugh. And then she wasn't sorry for her reaction, if it had caused Merlin to laugh.


	8. Turad

**Chapter 8: Turad**

They paid their first toll mid-morning, moments after Turad came into view. Merlin held the horses still as the short, balding collector took a casual visual inventory of the supplies remaining in the wagon.

Arthur bantered with the other attendant, a tall paunchy man slouched in the shade of a makeshift booth that looked to Merlin as if it had been erected hastily and recently, with no thought to stability or continuity. He could tell Arthur was picking up information about the tolls the two collectors were authorized to collect, as well as whose pockets the funds would be lining. It sounded to Merlin like the city would only benefit from a small percentage, but he kept his mouth shut and handed over the coin demanded without challenging the amount.

Beside him on the driver's seat, Freya seemed not to be paying attention to any of the proceedings. Her gaze was fixed on the hazy spread of rooftops – towers, domes, clusters of green treetops marking parks – rising from the valley on hills to the north and south. And the silver ribbon of the Little Cross River wound down from the head of the valley, passing through the heart of Turad before disappearing in the distance.

At a nod from the short, bald collector, Merlin flipped the reins and the wagon lurched into movement, heading down the slight incline of the road. Arthur remained behind to chat; he'd catch them up before long. And if they reached the home of Freya's mother's cousin by sundown, they'd be lucky.

"Is Turad a larger city than Camelot?" Freya said, a slight hitch in her voice. She sounded overwhelmed, maybe a little intimidated at the thought of becoming a resident.

"They're comparable in size," he answered quietly. "None of the approaches to the capital command a view of the entire city, like here."

"What am _I _doing here?" she said to herself. Her voice trembled.

"You'll be fine," he told her.

Tolls had always been a fact of life in Turad. All three bridges over the Little Cross relied on the tolls for their upkeep; there had been two others when he'd lived there, at the west and south city gates. Those tolls ostensibly paid for road maintenance, lighting for the first and last watches of the night, and the salaries of the watchmen themselves – some of whom answered to the reeve as sub-deputies, some of whom answered directly to council members, depending on street and district. And some of whom, Merlin remembered, had been for sale to the highest bidder.

Freya gave him coin for the second toll, as well as half the third, as they entered the city through the west gate, and Arthur caught up with them again. Merlin refused to take any more from her thereafter; an agent's writ could draw pay from any bank in the city, and he was better able to replace coin doing odd jobs than she would be. And depending on the welcome she received from her mother's cousin –

"Tell me the address where you sent your letters," he said to her, and had to repeat himself twice before she attended to the question.

It wasn't the sound of the rough wagon wheels passing over the cobbled street, nor the open windows everywhere leaking household and shop noises into the air, the street performers looking for spare coin, the children chasing stray toys and the stray dogs. It was Freya's first look at the Daved Cathedral – and she didn't even hear his voice til a curve in the road hid the great two-domed roof behind a cluster of three-story tenant houses.

"Oh," she said, the word coming out in a long sigh. "I have never in my life seen a cathedral like that, not even in Camelot. Wouldn't Gaius have – oh, the address! I'm sorry. It's Number Five, Sycamore Avenue." She was blushing again, but Merlin pretended he didn't notice.

Sycamore Avenue faced Key Park in one of the northeastern residential districts, less than half an hour's walk from Morgana's chalet. He was faintly pleased to hear it; he felt an unusual sense of responsibility for her. He shouldn't care beyond dropping her at the front door and walking away. But he had no choice, he had to wait on Arthur's beck and call til the agent was satisfied he'd done all he could for the toll situation.

It was a comfortably well-off working man's neighborhood. A merchant or two, maybe an independent money-lender, a junior banker, retired men of means. Men who worked with pen and ink, figures and calculations rather than actual materials. Freya would live in a family with plenty to spare for her physical needs.

But would they _care_?

He paid a fourth toll as they crossed from the central business district into Key Park district. A young boy scraped carpenter's saw-horses aside so they could pass, as the two collectors turned to other folk approaching their makeshift gate, guarding their charge jealously so none could pass without paying. A quick glance to right and left told Merlin that at least three parallel streets had been hastily yet effectively blocked to prevent alternate routes avoiding the toll. He sent another glance aloft, gauging roof composition and angle, and was fairly sure he could pass the checkpoint without having to detour widely or dig in his wallet.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Freya said nervously. Her fingers were twisting in the fabric of her skirt over her knees.

"What do you know about your mother's family?" he returned, guiding the horses into the turn down Sycamore Avenue, facing the open gates of the park and the five-foot stone wall that ran the length of it on this avenue.

The homes were square and blocky stone, two- and three-stories above street level, all rubbing shoulders without so much as an alley between them. There was a huge spreading sycamore tree at the head of the avenue, and the cobblestones for ten feet around the base of the trunk were uneven, pushed up by the growing roots. The sidewalk and curb which rounded the corner outside the iron-gated front areas were tilted and raised as they approached the massive namesake also.

"They – they never actually answered a letter," Freya quavered.

He said nothing as the horses clopped the wagon down to Number Five, but he thought through what they would do in the event the family had moved and couldn't be found, or if they rejected her outright. Morgana, he was sure, would let her stay at the chalet til Arthur was through with him, then he could take her back to Emmett's Creek.

"Number Five," Freya said, sounding near to panic. She was clutching his right sleeve near his cuff.

He figured anything he could say to try to calm her down would only increase her self-consciousness. So he simply halted the team, set the brake, patted her hand - and jumped down.

Arthur sat his stallion as Merlin circled the wagon, leaning over crossed wrists on his saddlehorn. He dropped his blue gaze from the imposing three-story home to meet Merlin's eyes momentarily. There wasn't much to his expression, but Merlin could tell he was impressed, maybe even refining his opinion and impression of Freya.

Merlin himself had known the address, remembered the district, and that had been a warning for him of what to expect. He was glad they had taken a longer break for their midday meal, to clean up as much as possible without undressing for a full bath. Even though the sun had set and they were pushing the dinner hour, it was better for Freya than arriving an hour earlier, but sweaty and dusty.

She tumbled down without his assistance, and was trying to reach her case in the bed of the wagon.

"Leave it," he told her quietly, taking her elbow and steering her around to the sidewalk.

Arthur had tied his reins to a finger-thick post of the wrought-iron fence, and reached to open the gate for Freya. Merlin stopped as the agent escorted Freya up the walk and the stone stairs to a white-painted from door, then turned to step up on a spoke of the wheel to reach for her traveling case.

A maid opened the door as he passed through the gate, a plump, short woman in a black dress with white apron and cap, whose mouth was pursed in skepticism as she perused Freya and Arthur. When her gaze dropped between them and she saw Merlin coming up the stairs, she actually started to close the door.

The thought he reacted with was an odd one – that they didn't deserve someone like Freya.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Freya," she said, again.

The expression on the middle-aged woman's ruddy face didn't change. If they'd gotten her letters, surely her name would be familiar. But she couldn't detect even a flicker of recognition.

"Gemma's daughter?" she tried, her heart dropping at the lack of welcome from her mother's cousin. Though this woman couldn't have looked less like a relative of Freya's mother if she was –

"Betsey, what is it?" came a light feminine voice from somewhere inside.

Betsey? Freya was confused; her mother's cousin was named Emma, she was sure, that was what had been put on the letters. She dared to look past the woman in black into the house – pillared entryway, polished white stone floor, wide archway into another room. She glimpsed luxurious house-plant foliage, rich wine-colored rug, and massive gray-bricked fireplace. Then the woman in front of her turned, and though she was inches shorter than Freya, the starched white cap blocked Freya's view of the home's interior.

"A stranger, ma'am," the woman replied to the unseen speaker. "A lady by the name of Freya. Gemma's daughter, she says." Freya's confusion increased rather than otherwise.

"Show her in of course, Betsey," the answer came.

The door swung open, hiding the short plump woman behind it, and revealing an open stairway, also of polished white stone, ascending toward the back of the house on the right, and three closed doors at the back of the entryway – which was in itself half as large as Percy's common room.

A lady glided into view from the arched doorway; she wore a pearl-gray dress with lace at collar and cuffs and a fitted bodice with four vertical rows of tiny buttons – which served no other purpose, Freya was surprised to note, than decoration. This, Freya sighed to herself with relief, was cousin Emma. The lady's hair was lighter than Freya's mother's had been, and streaked with gray, but dressed handsomely around her face and pinned up in back. Dark eyes regarded Freya from a face youthful in spite of a few wrinkles only momentarily before she swept across the stone floor to wrap her arms around her.

Freya took two deep, quick breaths that just missed being sobs, and held the older woman as tightly as she was being held.

"Oh, my dear girl," Emma said into her ear, releasing her and stepping back to beam joyfully. "Welcome – welcome! We only received your letter yesterday – you look so much like your mother, do you know? Randall hasn't come home from the exchange yet – you'll be staying upstairs with Viv – we were sorry to hear you were in mourning – ah, your companions?"

Freya turned. Arthur stood just inside the door, gazing up at the ceiling of the entryway, that rose to the level of the second story, and the crystal-bedecked chandelier suspended there. He was grinning, hands loosely on his hips.

Merlin was still on the doorstep, her case in one hand and his hat tucked under his elbow. His eyes were on her, his expression calm, his demeanor unruffled. For some reason, she felt calm herself just to see him, less like bursting into tears or floating away on the breeze. She gave him a smile of relief – she was staying upstairs with Viv! Then – Viv?

"Mama? Is she here? Is it her?" A sweet young voice – she saw Merlin's gaze rise before she turned.

The speaker was a young girl, no more than sixteen, she'd guess, leaning over the rail of the stairway. She wore a dark blue dress with thick lines of silver embroidery at collar, shoulders, and down the middle of the bodice to her waist. Her hair was the color of ripe wheat, and hung loose and curly over one shoulder.

"Come meet your cousin Freya, Vivian," Emma said, beckoning her down.

The girl's feet were so light on the stairs she seemed to float down to them. And unreasonably, it occurred to Freya to wonder what expression was on Merlin's face as the beautiful girl descended. Vivian's smile was as warm and genuine as her mother's, yet as she reached to hug Freya, her eyes went over Freya's shoulder to Merlin, still at the door with Freya's case.

And behind her, a gruff throat-clearing was followed by a genial demand, "Excuse me, man! Can't a fellow even enter his own front door?"

That would be Randall, Emma's husband, someone Freya's mother had never met, but knew of from infrequently-exchanged letters. She turned, Vivian's arm still draped over her shoulder, to see a tall man, stoop-shouldered – from days spent at a desk, she assumed – slightly paunchy, the tight brown curls that covered his head going to gray more swiftly than his wife's hair, but serving only to make him seem more distinguished. His tone had been impatient but not unfriendly, and there was a good-natured glint in his gray eyes.

"Cousin Freya has arrived, Randall," Emma explained, as Merlin silently stepped aside to allow the master of the house to enter.

"Welcome, cousin," Randall said, taking one of her hands between both of his and pressing it kindly. "And these gentlemen?" He turned first to Arthur, the better-dressed and free-handed, standing already inside the door.

"I'm glad to meet you, sir," Arthur said in response, reaching to shake Randall's uncertainly-offered hand firmly. "I am Agent Arthur from Camelot. This is Agent Merlin."

Merlin nodded to Randall without trying to free a hand for a tactile greeting. The calmness was gone, edged out by a stony wariness that made him seem less like a powerful guard dog on a leash and more like a hungry wolf surprised on the doorstep.

Randall nodded also to acknowledge him, then looked back to Arthur, his own demeanor changing from relaxed head-of-household to business-like leading citizen. "Are you in Turad on official business?" he questioned.

"Yes, sir, we are," Arthur answered.

"The toll situation?" There was a faint surprise on Arthur's face; Randall noticed, Freya saw, and nodded sagely. "You'll be wanting to meet with Judge Alined, then, and the council?"

"Ah, tolls, tolls," Emma broke in. "That's all we ever hear about these days. Randall, if these gentlemen – these agents – have business that keeps them in Turad a while, perhaps they might stay here with us?"

Randall agreed by saying, "If you don't have other arrangements made, agents, we'd be proud to have you stay, to offer our thanks for Freya's safe arrival, as well as our assistance with anything at all you may require in the line of duty."

"Thank you, we would be honored to accept –" Arthur began.

Merlin interrupted, "No, sir, I'm sorry to decline – I have other friends in Turad I have obligations to."

Emma and Vivian both made disappointed sounds. Freya's heart sank – those friends he'd been eager to see were better friends than she'd thought, if he was sure of being offered a place to stay on such short notice. Arthur looked at him a moment, then nodded.

"I know where to find you when I need you," he said, and Freya hoped she was the only one to hear the unspoken warning.

She stepped out from under Vivian's arm to take her case from Merlin; he hadn't even set foot inside the house. "Are you sure you won't –" she began softly.

"I'll take the wagon and team with me," he said, looking past her into the house. She wondered if not meeting her eyes was deliberate or incidental, or maybe he was still watching Vivian. "You can think about selling them, or not, and let me know. I'll handle that for you, if you like."

"I will see you again?" she said, suddenly unwilling to watch him walk away. Irrational it might be, she felt as if he was her last link to Emmett's Creek, to home. If she lost him –

Merlin handed her the case and turned without answering, settling his hat back on his head, low over his eyes. He fairly bounded down the stairs, swinging the gate shut behind him without stopping to check if it latched, leaping up to the driver's seat of the wagon.

Was he in such a hurry to leave her, responsibility thankfully discharged? Or was he impatient to see this friend, this – Morgana? she dredged the name up in her memory.

Lose him, she scoffed at herself. She'd never had him to lose.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana's chalet, on the rising northern hill of the city, was probably the most well-known private residence in Turad. Built into the hillside as it was, it was visible through most of that district and into others as well. There was a place on First Bridge, the northernmost of the three, where one could see the whole structure at once.

It was L-shaped, with one wing extending backwards into the hillside, the wing that housed kitchen, servants' quarters, a small sick-room with medical supplies for common illnesses and minor injuries. The second and third floors of that wing were all rooms for apprentices and junior revengers. The front wing, that spread handsomely across the front of the hill, with balconies and crenellation and a dozen or more full-length windows, was all for Morgana's use. Dining room, receiving room, office, library. Second-floor bedrooms twice the size of the apprentices' for guests, with small adjoining sitting-rooms and bathing-rooms and even a small corner game room. The third floor was entirely Morgana and Gwaine's chambers – not many had been to that floor of that wing.

In the crook of the L, at second-story height, was the flattened training field and a large equipment shed in one corner. It was possible, he'd heard, to come and go from the back of the property without ever entering Turad proper, but if Merlin ever attempted it, he wouldn't do it with a wagon and an agent in tow.

As high on the hill as the chalet was, it was at the end of a street – aptly if not imaginatively named Hill Street – the front entrance at the apex of the two wings, with the stables set further up into the trees. Merlin stopped at the entrance and set the brake; Morgana would buy the remainder of their supplies for her own kitchen and pantry, but the servants wouldn't want to tote it all back from the stable.

The man who answered the door, though an unfamiliar face to Merlin, would be a combination of butler and bodyguard. Morgana had rough and sometimes unwelcome visitors, and there were plenty in Turad who had reason to hate her organization. Though the man, muscular and quiet and blank-faced, didn't react to Merlin's name with recognition, he was shown directly to Morgana's office instead of left cooling his heels in the sparse entryway. He wasn't dressed well enough to be an important visitor shown to the comfortably sumptuous receiving-room, but he wouldn't be allowed to wander about on his own, either.

There were chairs in the office, three of them in addition to the large, comfortably-stuffed armchair at the corner writing desk. The round table in the middle of the room was bare; all books on the shelves, all maps stored. Everything safely locked, even the lid of the writing desk.

"Ah, my wolf cub," Morgana said from the door, her voice low and throaty as always, sounding amused.

He turned, and her green eyes studied him before narrowing slightly. She entered the room, pacing around him to the table, watching him as she went.

"But maybe he is a grown wolf, now? I hoped you'd return someday, but I didn't expect it. Why are you here? Did you catch up with your murderer?"

"Emmett's Creek," he said. "Little town two weeks west of here. His hometown."

"You killed him?" she said, leaning backwards against the table and crossing her ankles in front of her.

He felt his jaw tighten at the memory. "We were interrupted, and he was hung by a posse."

"Was that before or after your agent caught up with you?"

He didn't think he allowed his reaction to show, but Morgana lifted her chin in a full chuckle, and the ends of her short inky hair almost touched her shoulders. She pushed herself up from the table, reached and stroked a hand over his short hair.

"They shaved my wolf," she said, explaining her guess about his meeting with Arthur – his short haircut partially gave away his whereabouts during his absence from Turad. "About a month ago?"

"We met by chance in Camelot, and made a deal," Merlin said. "The time and chance to kill – in exchange for an - _unresisting_ - return to the capital. The cadet corps instead of prison."

"And now?" Morgana said. "Are you interested in an offer for a junior partnership?"

_Possibly_, Merlin conceded to himself. But he said, "I've a temporary agent's writ."

"I see." She considered him, all amusement gone. "You're here about _that_ problem." She was silent for a moment, thinking, then glanced at him as though no longer quite sure of him – well, cadet to agent was a big step, and one that he was still surprised he'd taken. "We shall have much to speak of, you and Gwaine and I. You will stay here? Maybe there will be some matters of interest to fill your time. And when your temporary writ is fulfilled – who knows?" She shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject. "You still riding that old nag?"

He grimaced and shook his head. "Sold when I entered the corps."

"Didn't bring much of a price?" The amusement was back. "So you're traveling light, then?"

"I've got a wagon and team outside."

One dark eyebrow arched. "From one old nag to a team and wagon?" she said. "They pay you well for a cadet? Or an advance on the agent's pay?"

He shrugged at the sarcasm. "They aren't mine." He sketched an explanation of Freya's situation and the decision to accompany her, leaving out the fact of her husband's identity, and finishing with an offer to sell.

"Hm," Morgana responded, lips twisted and eyes sharp. "Young and beautiful, is she? Can't wait to meet her."

"What do you mean?" he said, swinging around to scowl at her.

"You've never been in love before, have you?" she said.

He didn't answer; her insinuation was absurd. He turned and yanked the door open, stalked down the hall. She knew about the wagon, it would be taken care of. She'd invited him to stay, so stay he would. But he did not have to remain to discuss such – ridiculousness. Morgana's voice followed him down the corridor.

"Gwaine is working some of the boys out on the training grounds – he'll be happy to see you. Dinner in half an hour; claim any of the unused rooms."

He kept walking. Her chuckle followed him.

Love had never been something he'd thought on much, nor something he'd felt in a long time, nor yet something he expected to experience after his family had been taken. Love – he remembered the look on Will's face, the softened note in his voice, as he spoke of his wife and their unborn baby. Was that ever to be for him? He couldn't imagine any woman wanted a man so tortured and twisted by the past as he was, no mother or father who'd want to give their daughter to the dangerous scarecrow he'd seen in the mirror for years.

The torches around the training ground had already been fired. In the near corner there was a match underway, with a row of spectators, four male and two female dressed in trousers and tunics, partially blocking his view of the combatants. As Merlin moved closer, he saw that it was Gwaine and a young man he didn't recognize.

Both were shirtless and barefoot, the blades of their foot-long knives protected by wooden shuttles that wouldn't allow for cutting or stabbing, but provided extensive bruising where contact was made. Gwaine hadn't changed much; he was still lean and tough, with maybe a little gray above his ears and in the short scruffy beard. His opponent was maybe a few years into his twenties, unremarkable physically, dark-haired and half a foot shorter than Gwaine.

Merlin joined the row of observers; the nearest man glanced over and nodded, but said nothing. None of them said anything, and the only sound was the grunting and wheezing of the two fighters, the thwack of the shuttles making contact. It was almost over, Merlin saw, the younger man was tiring quickly. And just as soon as he thought it, Gwaine was plucking the knife from the other's hand, his own holding the wooden shuttle against the base of his opponent's throat.

Several of the onlookers nodded in satisfaction, Merlin noted, and wondered if the young fighter was unpopular for some reason. Mostly his own fellow apprentices had reacted with good-natured disappointment that their trainer remained undefeated. Towels were tossed to the two fighters, and Gwaine spoke a few words as he returned the younger man's shuttle-guarded knife.

The young man received it with an ungracious, almost sullen air, avoiding Gwaine's eyes as he rubbed his towel continuously, up his chest and over his shoulder. Gwaine finally turned away, ran his eyes over the row, lingered on Merlin at the end. Then he grinned.

"Clean yourselves up and get to the table," he ordered the apprentices. He didn't take his eyes off Merlin or try to hide the smile; several of the others looked over at Merlin curiously. "Don't be late, you all know how Morgana hates that."

The watching apprentices dispersed slowly, leaving the young fighter alone on the field.

Gwaine approached Merlin, saying, "Merlin!" in greeting. Behind him, the young man's head snapped up to stare over Gwaine's shoulder at Merlin. "Surprise, surprise," Gwaine went on, shaking his hand with genuine heartiness. "You here long? You back for good?" He took it for granted that if Merlin had returned, his quarry had been dispatched satisfactorily.

Merlin shrugged. "For now. I've got a little business in Turad."

Gwaine nodded, accepting without having to pry. Then his grin widened, took on a feral element. "Care to try your hand?" he said, flipping the shuttled knife and jerking his head back toward the field.

"Not a chance," Merlin returned. "Another time. When I get back into shape. When you get old."

Gwaine laughed. "You're going to make me wait that long?" he joked.

"Merlin?" the young fighter spoke up, tossing the towel down and drawing the wooden shuttle from his knife. "This is your Merlin? The one you say, _none of you will be like Merlin_?" He came closer, affecting to pay attention to the state of his blade than to the visitor, as though he found Merlin wanting in interest, after all.

Gwaine rolled his eyes and grimaced wryly. "Merlin," he said, "this is Mordred, one of our apprentices."

Merlin nodded shortly to acknowledge the introduction. Neither of them offered to shake the other's hand.

"Maybe _I _will get you onto the field," Mordred said, with the air of making a threat. "See how tough you really are." Merlin shrugged unconcernedly, and Mordred's blue-green eyes glinted dangerously.

"Mordred. Wash for dinner," Gwaine ordered, and the apprentice swaggered off with a challenging smirk, leaving towel and shuttle behind. "I'd warn you not to get a big head over what you just heard," Gwaine said to Merlin, "if I thought it meant anything to you." He pretended to punch Merlin's shoulder lightly, and added, "She wants to talk tomorrow?" referring to Morgana. They'd worked for years together, and well.

Merlin nodded, and followed Gwaine in Mordred's wake, to the door nearest the apprentices' communal wash-room.

"Don't let Mordred rile you," Gwaine said over his shoulder, and it was a warning as well as an apology. "I don't know how rusty you are – or even will be… You could take him easy, as you were when you were here last. But he's stubborn, and he's mean, and he's sneaky. I taught you to fight dirty if you absolutely had to, but I never saw you use it. Mordred, though…" He paused to let Merlin enter the chalet ahead of him. "He came here with nasty tricks like I've never seen, and I've had to remind him more than once not to use them. You were the quickest to fight over nothing that I ever saw, but you'd never come at a person's back. See that you don't turn yours on him."

"I won't," Merlin promised.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

After dinner, Randall and Arthur retired to the sitting room to smoke and discuss the toll business, and Emma vanished into the kitchen, excusing herself on hostess duties with a theatrical wave of her hand. Vivian took Freya's hand and pulled her up the white stone staircase.

"I'm so glad you're here," she chattered, repeating herself for the tenth or eleventh time. "I've never had a sister – not that my parents will try to treat you like a child, especially since you've already been married – what was that like? Oh, I have _so_ many questions for you! You'll sleep in here, with me."

She drew Freya into a room easily the size of Percy's common room, done in white and yellow and light blue, lacy frills everywhere. On the left-hand wall was a wide low bed with dozens of fluffy pillows, elsewhere large chests waited, graced with a childlike collection of toy animals, lace doilies, and dried-flower arrangements. Two enormous wardrobes stood against the front wall, and a dressing table to the right had three mirrors and two lamps, and a confused assortment of bottles, vials, and brushes scattered carelessly across it.

Through an arched doorway beyond the dressing table was another room, half the size of the main room, with a smaller bed covered by a neat colorful quilt and a single pillow. There was a lamp on the table in the corner under a face-sized mirror hung on the wall and a large potted plant in the opposite corner. Through another little door around the corner was a bathing-room – on the third floor! – and an inset clothes rack that was open to the room.

"I can't _wait_ to help you unpack your things!" Vivian gushed, but stopped when she saw Freya's small battered traveling bag on the table. She turned in a circle, searching the room for other luggage. "They haven't brought up your –"

"This is all I have," Freya explained gently. "It was all I needed."

"Well," Vivian floundered. "Then… we'll have the fun of shopping for you. A whole new set of dresses!"

Her cousin was strong-willed, Freya had noticed, with a slightly unrealistic, almost spoiled view of the importance of money and material things. Having no wish to offend so early, she merely smiled, and reminded Vivian she'd be wearing mostly black for five more months. "I truly appreciate your family taking me in," she added, resting on the edge of the bed that was to be hers.

"_I_ wish you'd come when you first said you were going to," Vivian said, with a warm smile that took the edge from her petulant tone. She hopped up on the table and swung her crossed feet. Silk stockings, Freya noticed, and black leather button-up shoes. With heels. "We'd have had _years_ more fun. You really would have been my sister, then. But how exciting for you to run off and be married instead!"

_Exciting_ wasn't the word she would have chosen, Freya thought. It was a topic she'd expected to come up, and she wanted to deal with it decisively so it wouldn't be revisited in conversation again and again. But Emma should be part of that first conversation, so she'd wait.

"You were really lucky, I guess," was Vivian's next comment. She was smoothing her dark blue skirt over her lap and so missed whatever reaction Freya hadn't been able to keep from showing on her face. "It's not exactly common knowledge, of course, but my mama let slip once that your mother and father weren't married. There wouldn't have been many men willing to marry a girl like that, here in Turad, but I guess that didn't matter to your husband – how old were you when you married him?"

"When he married me," Freya corrected automatically. No men would have been willing to marry her had she come to Turad unwed at fourteen? _Mother and father weren't married – what? But_… "I was fourteen."

One of Vivian's wing-like eyebrows rose. "Oh, my. _And_ too young to marry without a guardian's consent. Good thing you didn't come here first; my parents would never have allowed it. But now, as a widow, you're perfectly free to remarry whoever you choose. Mama will surely make plans for you to meet all the right eligible men."

Did Freya understand her young cousin correctly? Those five years with Padlow meant that her prospects for a good marriage were now completely unrestricted?

But – did that mean she would be expected to meet and entertain potential suitors – and then choose one of them to marry?

Vivian looked up. "Oh, _no_, I've upset you," she exclaimed, jumping up to flounce onto the bed and drape her arms around Freya. "Mama told me I must be very careful not to upset you. Did you love him very much? How did you meet him? How did he die? Or – you don't want to talk about it, do you?"

"No, I don't," Freya said. How could she answer any of those questions honestly without shocking her innocent cousin?

"Are you tired," Vivian said next. "It's early yet; _I _don't want to go to bed. We can talk about something else. Since we can't talk about your clothes, how about – those agents? How did you come to have _two_ agents escorting you here? Agent Arthur is certainly very handsome – maybe a little too old for me, I'm too young yet, Mama says, to think _seriously_ of marrying – do you know if he's married?"

"Yes, he is," Freya said. A headache was starting subtly in her temples.

"Oh… Well, Merlin, now, I could _definitely_ let him get a little closer to me. You know, that's a good idea. I don't know if Mama and Father would actually allow me to _marry_ an _agent_, but he might be fun to practice on. If I could get him to fall in love with me –"

"Please don't do that," Freya said quickly. "Don't toy with him if you're not serious." At Vivian's startled and questioning look, she tried to explain. "I think – if Agent Merlin ever did fall in love – I think he would take it very seriously. I – I just don't want him to be hurt, if you only meant to play a casual game. He – he isn't a flirt; he won't know you're only teasing, or – or practicing."

Vivian's eyes were cool and calculating. "Are you saying that because you want to keep him to yourself?"

"Because I – what?" Freya said. "No, Viv, he doesn't belong to me. He doesn't belong to anyone. I just know him well, and he doesn't deserve to be hurt."

Her cousin's manner didn't relax. "_How_ well do you know him? Have you slept with him?"

Sleep? How would sleeping with a man help her to know him better? She thought of the first night she'd sat up with him, unconscious with Gaius' sleeping draught – the night she'd gone to him in his nightmare – the night she'd been stabbed and had woken to him lying on the bed next to her.

"Slept with him," Vivian repeated patiently, watching her sharply for a reaction. "Have you lain with him? Let him have his way with you? _Known_ him, in an intimate physical way?"

Freya couldn't have been more shocked. If Vivian was asking what she thought she was asking… Freya felt her face flame into a hot blush. Almost all of what Padlow had forced her to do, the first night and afterward, had been unknown to her, never even discussed with her mother. She supposed that, with Vivian facing marriage herself in a couple of years, it shouldn't have been so surprising that Emma would have explained certain… requirements of marriage. Or that Vivian would rather discuss details with a widowed cousin rather than her mother. She wouldn't burden Vivian with the distasteful truth… but they were discussing Merlin…

"But we weren't –" she began, shamed to hear herself stuttering a little. "I've only been a widow – seven months, now. It's five more until I can marry again." She firmly shut out thoughts of Merlin in his bath, in the rain… But only a minute ago, Vivian had been discussing suitors for Freya, what –

"I'm not talking about _marrying_, for goodness' sake," Vivian said, sounding exasperated though she was smiling sweetly. "You don't _have_ to be married to… you know… explore the possibilities. Physically. With a man." She giggled in a way that alarmed Freya. "_Obviously_."

"No, I – we never –" Freya took a deep breath, laid the back of her hand against her forehead to see if she was as feverish as she felt. "I'm sorry, do you mind terribly excusing me? The trip was – I'm very tired."

"Oh, of course." Surely it was Freya's imagination that Vivian sounded disappointed. "Sleep as long as you like in the morning. We have lots of time to talk… and shop." She gave Freya a mischievous grin, and skipped to the larger bedroom, sprawling on her bed with a small book.  
>Freya prepared herself for sleeping perfunctorily, washing and undressing, then turned down the lamp and lay facing the darkness. She was exhausted from the trip, but her mind wouldn't stop whirling.<p>

Vivian hadn't been explicit. Perhaps when she referred to physical exploration, she had meant kissing and… groping. Yes, only that. Burton had done as much, when he'd caught her off guard, without changing the fact that Padlow had already married her. But… _lie with him_, Vivian had said.

And her mother had taught her, _the first man to lie with you must be your husband._

Vivian talked as though the physical act could be separate from a marriage. Could be done without ending in a marriage. _Your mother and father weren't married_.

_The first man to lie with you must be your husband_. She remembered now, scraps of conversations with Shasta, that she'd tried to avoid.

_ What if I misunderstood?_

**A/N: Thanks everyone (fairygoatmother!) for reviews!**


	9. Contracts

**Chapter 9: Contracts**

Three weeks Merlin spent gathering information, compiling it into concise reports, training by himself in the dead of the night – the only time he ever had the time – and growing thoroughly tired of being Arthur's errand boy.

At the end of that time, he was surprised by a summons from Morgana, but went to the receiving room without comment or question.

Mordred was coming toward him down the hall as he rounded the corner, and quickened his step on seeing him. Merlin paused with his hand the latch and waited; at that, Mordred stopped, his hand going to the ostentatiously-fringed sheath at his hip. But when Merlin made no other move, Mordred back two steps, then retreated down the hallway, watching almost constantly over his shoulder.

When Merlin entered the receiving room, he found Morgana seated in a comfortable chair by the front window, writing table at her elbow with a ledger and inkwell. She was occupied writing and didn't look up. Gwaine was seated opposite to her, his back to the wall and one ankle crossed over the other knee; he lifted his chin to acknowledge Merlin's glance, but didn't speak or smile.

There was a third in the room, a jowly man with ice-blue eyes and a long queue the color of sand. He paced the width of the room several steps beyond Morgana's seat, then stopped and stared as though Merlin had burst into the room to shout an obscene challenge. He was dressed richly but not expensively, his clothes well-cut, but subdued rather than showy. Merlin could guess very little as to his station or occupation.

"Master Jordan, this is Merlin, the associate I spoke of," Morgana said, still without looking up. Merlin thought it significant that she had not said, _agent_. "You may trust to his discretion as fully as you trust myself or Gwaine. Merlin," she looked up then, green eyes cool and professional, "Master Jordan has offered rather an extensive contract. We require your – advice."

Did he imagine the slight pause, the hint of hesitation? Why was he to be privy to this conversation, clearly a meeting with a prospective client? He'd never been brought in before – nor had any, to the best of his knowledge – had never had any desire or interest in the business details of revenging. And now, he wasn't even an apprentice. He wasn't a revenger. He was an agent, though temporarily, which might conceivably put him at odds with the inner workings of the organization and business. He was literally in a position now to require Morgana to shut it all down – of course enforcing that would be another matter, but still. Something was in the air; he remained at the door, still and straight, hands clasped behind him.

"An associate?" the jowly man protested. "This boy?"

Morgana, who had fixed her gaze on the client, looked back at Merlin in swift alarm; Gwaine even set both feet flat on the floor as if he expected to have to tackle Merlin to prevent an attack on a client.

Merlin let the words hang in the air, let the old anger rise at the insult, then stepped forward, walking deliberately toward the man, hands still behind his back. He didn't intend to intimidate or offend unduly, just to correct the misconception decisively. As he neared the man he tapered the anger off to hardness alone, but the man still flinched when Merlin abruptly extended his open right hand.

"Master Jordan," he said neutrally. "We've not met." His tone more than implied a rebuke of the man's lack of manners in insulting a stranger when he was the guest.

Jordan swallowed, glanced behind Merlin at Morgana to one side, then Gwaine to the other. He nervously shook Merlin's hand once. "Pleased to meet you," he said.

Merlin backed up, again taking slow steps, emphasizing his treatment of the situation as a duel, never turning his back to his opponent. He ended beside Gwaine's chair, and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

There might have been a small smile on Morgana's lips as she turned her attention back to the open book in front of her. "Master Jordan," she said. "Please begin to state your proposition again."

"Twenty-five years ago," Jordan began, "when the Third Bridge was finished, Turad Council voted for a series of tolls. The money was to be used for a number of purposes, but all to the benefit of the people of the city – bridge and road upkeep, gate guards, watchmen, street lamps.

"Last year the council voted on a measure that in essence divided the city into eight counties governed mainly by one member of the council. This was intended to ease the burden on the council as a whole, by allowing the members to act with more autonomy – however, it resulted in several members imposing additional tolls within the counties, to increase their income and thereby their power, within their counties and within the council."

To this point the jowly client had been mostly composed, but seemed to lose his temper as he described what devastation the extra tolls had brought, most of which Merlin already knew for fact or had heard as rumor during his three weeks of investigation. Several of the small shires surrounding Turad had also put up toll booths at bridges and gates, some sanctioned by leaders like a reeve, some no more than a powerful and greedy citizen or highwayman able to enforce the toll. There were even a couple of barricades in the rougher sections of Turad itself, held by gangs of thieves and rowdies.

This of course had several economic results, none of which had been beneficial. Those within the city who traveled – like watermen or street-sweepers, various vendors and clothiers and delivery-men – weren't able to move freely anymore, at least on a daily basis. Deliveries weren't being made, or were being delayed several days so many deliveries could be made at once within a particular county. Folks from outside the city who brought produce on a daily basis were now taking it elsewhere or keeping it themselves, which resulted in spoiling surplus outside and shortages inside Turad. Which in turn drove up prices in the city, to three and four times the normal rates.

Normally such conditions might balance out with the general exodus of the people from the city to the countryside, bringing the need to the supply, but not everyone could afford to do that. Some were even starving in the poorer sections of the city, but it was beginning to affect everyone's business. There had been riots; someone had even attempted to set fire to the First Bridge.

All crime, according to Jordan, and which Merlin could tentatively corroborate, was increasing. The biggest problem was theft, especially of grocer-stalls, or bakeries and butcher-shops, but several robberies had ended in murder. The city prison was full, as well as the debtor's pen. And now there were reports of worse conditions in the countryside, where farms and ranches and orchards were more isolated.

_So what's the proposition_? Merlin wondered. None of what Jordan had said was really news to any of them; he himself had written twenty pages of report confirming these things from various sources. Petitions should be presented to the council, to the reeve, to the judge. He knew from Arthur's own reports that it was increasingly difficult to gain such a hearing, but why turn to a revenger, unless…

"What do you propose a revenger do to right these myriad wrongs?" Morgana inserted smoothly into a pause in the man's rantings.

He took a deep, gulping breath, made a visible effort to calm himself. "I have accepted a retainer's fee from – a number of citizens, to represent them. I am prepared to offer, on behalf of this assembly, contracts on Judge Alined, Reeve Agravaine, and all eight council members."

"You want them dead?" Gwaine asked incredulously.

Morgana held up a hand, finished making a note in her book, and looked up. "Before you commit yourself too specifically, Master Jordan, we are accustomed to deliberating in private whether we will accept your contract, and what course of action would be acceptable revenge."

Jordan bowed his head in acquiescence and stepped to the door, but before he departed, he turned to remind them, "These men are responsible for the excess of tolls, which have drained our region of profit and caused crime and starvation. They are responsible for maintaining peace and stability, and instead they squabble for larger pieces of the pie, chopping our fine city –" the butler/bodyguard waiting at the door drew Jordan out firmly but politely, and shut the door behind them.

Morgana exchanged a significant look with Gwaine.

"Sounds to me like coup by assassination," Gwaine remarked. "I wonder who his backers are, and the amount of his retainer."

"The contracts he offers is more political than any we've ever taken," Morgana mused, reviewing her notes. "And very public."

"How much is he offering per?" Gwaine asked.

"Not enough to risk crossing the line. What do you think, Merlin?" She glanced up from the book; Gwaine looked at him also.

"As a revenger, I would ask if these ten men are personally responsible for any crimes," he answered. "As an agent, I would say they're definitely responsible for the situation, that they've failed in their civic duties and ought to be made to answer for it."

"I don't suppose you could make the argument that these men intended any deaths, any thefts, any real harm," Gwaine said. "Of course, no one is accusing them individually of murdering anyone. And if they've committed robbery, instituting more tolls, it was within their authority to do so."

Merlin opened his mouth to argue that it was authority abused – as Padlow had robbed his tax region for years in the name of collecting government taxes.

Before he could speak, Morgana said, right over Gwaine's last words, "How would you make them answer for their failures, Agent Merlin?"

"We're not authorized to use weapons, only words," Merlin said. Except of course in self defense, as always.

"Meetings," Morgana said, almost mockingly. "Gather and compile facts and figures." Merlin felt his back stiffen as if at an insult, but her assessment was accurate enough. "And if you fail to persuade, fail to convince them to change their ways? You can threaten to bring Uther's troops in, but that's not ultimately up to you to command."

It took an effort, but Merlin didn't respond. He didn't like it, but neither could he change it. He would do what was in his power to do, as well as he could do it, and he wasn't responsible for more.

"Do you suppose," Morgana said, with a glint in her green eyes that warned Merlin she was deliberately baiting him, "if we took this contract and killed a few councilmen, or re-appropriated funds from them, you would consider it your duty to arrest us?"

Merlin said only, "My writ doesn't cover unauthorized arrests." Arthur's did, though.

"He's right about one thing, Morgana," Gwaine interjected. "We don't take an eye for an eye if a person is guilty of merely greed or carelessness. You simply cannot claim these ten men are responsible for deaths or outright theft."

Morgana smiled suddenly, a smile full of teeth and mischief. "Merlin, would you send Jordan back in for a moment? And thank you for your input."

Merlin could tell when he was being dismissed, but he simply nodded and moved to obey. Morgana had always enjoyed toying with folks, testing how far she could push. Which was why Merlin had always let her push him farther than he would have allowed anyone else.

An odd thought occurred to him as he left the room – Freya never pushed.

He found Jordan pacing the hallway, muttering to himself, checking and adjusting the tie of his queue absently. "Your presence is again requested, Master Jordan," he said, pausing as he passed, and the man nodded impatiently, moved again to the receiving room.

Merlin was fairly sure Morgana wouldn't take the contracts. The most she would do, he expected, would be to accept a fee to investigate if any of the men were more culpable in more specific circumstances.

What was interesting to Merlin was the fact that someone would come offering such a contract to Morgana. Revengers were marginally legal under normal conditions, and Morgana took care that her organization should stay so – that was what her reputation and the extent of her organization was based on. How long could she stay in business if she had juniors and apprentices arrested, even if only occasionally?

No, this felt like work for assassins, who made no pretense of staying on the right side of the law.

There was every possibility that a segment of the population would hold a growing belief that taking the heads of those who'd precipitated the crisis would resolve it. Though common sense and Sage Springs had taught Merlin that the opposite was true – and maybe this conglomerate only wanted revenge for more personal losses, not necessarily a restoration of governmental balance… The idea of a middle-man was unsurprising. Of course any citizen who might admit to wanting the members of his city council dead would want to remain anonymous. Jordan would be paid whether Morgana accepted or not, probably, though there might be a bit extra if she accepted…

But… his speech to the three of them just now was a good deal more impassioned than someone simply delivering a message. More so than a minute increase in percentage of pay should prompt. He wondered if there was something more to it, that Jordan wasn't telling them.

He wondered if maybe these ten men didn't deserve to be made aware – if perchance they were not aware – that there were those willing to pay to see them dead.

"Why are you still hanging about here?" a rude voice demanded.

Merlin focused on the young man he'd already noticed lingering at the end of the corridor, without breaking stride. It was Mordred, again; he had no business on this wing, either, and certainly had no right questioning Merlin's comings and goings. But true to Gwaine's warning, Mordred had already made several attempts to rile Merlin, none of which had taken him by surprise, so he'd ignored or side-stepped them. He honestly cared nothing for Mordred's childish assaults one way or the other, and so hadn't responded.

But as Merlin continued toward him, Mordred blocked the corridor, hands on hips. "You've been eavesdropping on the client meeting," he challenged. "They don't ever have anyone else sit in with them, if they did they'd have me, the lead apprentice. They'd have me, not some homeless stray like –"

Merlin drew even with him at that moment, and without hesitation or warning, threw all his strength into a blow to the apprentice's face that felled him flat on the carpeted floor; he didn't look back, knowing he'd knocked Mordred out cold, as he'd intended. Maybe the next time he would keep quiet til he knew the measure of an opponent, and not allow his mouth to run away with his assumptions.

Later than night at dinner, Merlin noticed two things that interested him, also. First, that he had been moved from Morgana's left hand to Gwaine's right. He didn't mind that, didn't feel he deserved the second-highest place to begin with, but it meant one of two things – either Morgana was considering more than an outright refusal and Jordan was staying for her decision, or he had traveled too far to journey back before nightfall, though it made no sense for citizens of Turad to seek out someone who was not a local, to present the contracts to a revenger. However, Jordan's expression was sullen and despondent, so clearly Morgana had not held out much hope for the results of an investigation. His hazel eyes constantly flickered down the row of apprentice revengers, though what he was searching for, Merlin would not venture to guess.

The second thing that Merlin watched closely as they ate, was the attitude of the self-proclaimed lead apprentice. Mordred was sporting a swollen nose and a split lip, and snarled twice at friendly inquiries from his fellows. But instead of glaring at Merlin, as he'd expected, or even attempting to challenge him again more openly, Mordred instead ignored him completely, giving his attention to the small talk of the three at the head of the table – Morgana, Gwaine, and Jordan.

As the meal ended, Gwaine stood. Instantly, every eye was on him, every tongue still; it was a well-trained group.

"Tonight I have a treat for you," he announced, humor in his tone. "Instead of dessert, we shall have a single-elimination wrestling tourney." He allowed a smile at the collective groan, yet the apprentices stood obediently, laying aside tableware and hastily-used napkins.

Merlin and Mordred were only a breath slower, but as Gwaine passed Merlin, he laid two fingers atop the back of Merlin's hand on the back of his chair, and Merlin obeyed that signal to hold his position for further instructions. Whether Mordred observed the gesture, he couldn't tell, but the young man's eyes were quick. Merlin didn't look in his direction, to avoid drawing his attention, but he saw Jordan's gaze rest on the lead apprentice long enough for a look of speculation to cross his jowly features, as Mordred followed Gwaine and the others.

Jordan remained seated in the dining room; he was Morgana's guest, not Merlin's, so he gave no thought to the man's comfort or entertainment. Morgana rose as the furthest apprentices began to file out of the room, and paused behind Merlin much as Gwaine had done, brushing the back of his elbow with her fist. He followed her unspoken command, keeping pace respectfully as Morgana strolled down the corridor outside the kitchen toward the stairway to the apprentices' cells on the second and third floors at the far end.

"You don't wear a belt knife anymore," she remarked. "May I assume you are armed with at least one blade, somewhere?"

"I am."

She smiled without looking at him. "You were gone almost a year and a half – you've changed. Though, if I may observe without offense, we've noticed you're a little the worse for wear. Anytime you feel like telling the story of how you came by those –" she pointed to his left wrist, then indicated his forehead – "or that, you'll find an interested listener."

He shrugged, clasping his hands behind his back. "Kid with a lamp," he said, offering no other explanation.

"Uh-huh." Her tone was wry. "Well, whatever happened to you, I'm pleased you didn't get yourself killed gaining your revenge. However, I was speaking also of your – appearance. When you arrived, you looked like somebody's poor country relation, and three weeks of long days poking about the city has not improved you." She chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "I suspect that had much to do with Jordan's reaction to you." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "I'm so glad you didn't make it necessary for the servants to clean blood from my carpet."

He snorted. "Control and direction, you taught me."

She nodded. They reached the foot of the stair, where she stopped and faced him. "You'll find a gift in your room," she said, reaching to straighten his collar and not meeting his eyes.

"I don't want –"

"Quiet," she said, a faint hint of impatient sharpness below the amusement. "Think of this gift as a tool, to help you play your new part. So you can decide where your path truly lies. I'm hoping it's here. Go on up, now." He turned to the stairs, took two two-at-a-time steps before he heard her add, in a more teasing way, "I bet your lady-friend will appreciate this gift, too."

That night was uncomfortably warm.

Merlin had his shirt unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled over his elbows, and his feet were bare. The occasional breath of air stirred, cooling him in the darkness as he waited, perched on the railing of the second-floor balcony, just above the main entrance to the chalet.

The glow over the western horizon to his left had faded to a deep blue, and most of the stars were visible overhead. The city was spread out below and in front of him, streetlights and candlelit windows sparkling and shining. It was odd to think of all the busy-ness in the city, with how quiet it was here on the hill.

It was odd to turn his face toward the southwest and think of Freya somewhere in the city, settling in with her new family. He had been to Number Five Sycamore a handful of times since their arrival, but never at times when it would be appropriate to see her, talk to her.

The open balcony door to his immediate left banged softly against the stone of the chalet wall as another breeze wafted past. He wasn't worried about company, though, since no one was in the habit of coming out on the balcony. Open windows in the cells kept them cool enough. He was not in the habit of coming out here, either, but was simply following up on a suspicion. He didn't care one way or the other if he was right or wrong, but he did need to know, since the suspicion touched so closely on his agent's task.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he'd gain only a sleepless night, or three.

Merlin wondered if her family was treating her well. She was very strong, to have suffered Padlow so long and yet remain so sweet and unspoiled, but there was a vulnerability to her, too. He hoped for her sake that her cousins were kind folk.

He shifted, easing his back into a different position against the rough stone. Morgana's idea of a gift had turned out to be a new suit of clothes, complete with boots, belt, and wide-brimmed hat. Freya wasn't his lady, of course, but he wondered for a moment if she'd recognize him in them. He'd been ragged and filthy in her presence, more often than not. Three weeks it had been since he'd seen her.

Three weeks and two fights – neither of which he'd started, and neither of which he'd lost. Arthur had sent him to the countryside to track down the rumors Jordan had mentioned in his diatribe, of tolls illegally instituted by villages around Turad. Both of those fights represented toll-barricades taken down, two villages first properly subdued, then reassured that the situation in Turad, which had caused their people to seek additional income, was being rectified.

He'd seen those farms burned by roaming brigands. Seen decent farmers and ranchers turn suspicious and surly, seen individual toll collectors take advantage of those not able to stand for themselves. His lists and reports back in his room were filled, front and back, with proven numbers of damage and loss. What clung to him – so he even had a handful of nightmares – were the deaths.

Merlin heard footsteps behind him in the hallway; he tensed and waited, but the quick knock and cheerful greeting told him of one apprentice visiting another. Not the one he was waiting for, but it brought his thoughts back to the task at hand.

The balcony wasn't wide, barely three paces, but it ran the length of the front wing. Each of the guest-rooms had doors that opened onto it, rooms whose occupants would open the doors in nice weather to gain the benefit of the night breezes Merlin enjoyed while he waited. The only current guest was Jordan, in the second room down – the light from his lamps glowed behind curtained windows, spilled out the open balcony door. He had strolled to the doorway twice since Merlin had been on the balcony, but didn't – and wouldn't – see him.

The door from the corridor to the balcony was open behind him, but the lack of corridor-lamps meant he remained in darkness. The faint flickering that reached out warned him a split second before he heard footsteps again, soft and stealthy, approaching and passing.

Merlin straightened slowly, stepping down from the railing, and leaning his head back into the corridor enough to positively identify Mordred. Fully dressed and carrying a single thick candle, he stopped at Jordan's door and rapped quietly. Hidden once more, Merlin heard the door open, and close again a moment later – no greeting, no question. The candle-glow had disappeared again – Mordred had entered Jordan's room.

He elected to stay where he was. There were risks if he attempted to listen at the bedroom's corridor entrance, or if he moved closer to the open balcony door. If caught, he could not explain away his presence – here in the corner of the balcony he was only visible to someone within arms' reach, which wasn't likely to happen, and even so, his presence would be unremarkable, an explanation easy and natural.

Merlin could hear their voices now, though not what they were saying. It was unlikely they had connections to discuss other than Jordan's proposed contracts, but Mordred had no business approaching a client on his own. Morgana could easily throw him out on his ear if she knew that.

Jordan's voice rose full and uninterrupted, and Merlin recognized the cadence of the speech he'd given in the downstairs receiving-room. Then Mordred's voice entered in, raising a question, and both voices fell to a lower murmur.

Negotiations.

Merlin's lip curled in contempt. A revenger who would take an unjustifiable contract was no better than the guilty they pursued.

It wasn't quite an hour later when Mordred left the room, came down the hallway and rounded the corner to return to his own cell, at the far end of the row. Merlin didn't have to see him to know; he recognized the difference between the young apprentice's tread and the older client. He only shifted slightly to ease his position and to command a better view of the corridor, still remaining unseen in the shadow to anyone casually glancing his way.

The light went out in Jordan's room, and the balcony fell into greater blackness.

Still Merlin waited. He'd wait all night, if necessary, and watch Mordred all the next day. He could be wrong, after all. Potentially, if Mordred were to succeed in killing one or more of Jordan's contracts, the next of kin could come after him, or even hire Morgana to see it done.

If he really had taken the contract himself, it would be smarter for Mordred to wait til morning, manufacture some legitimate excuse for leaving, even stage an argument or fight. Mordred wasn't that smart, however, and proved it when he re-emerged from his room not half of an hour later. He disappeared down the stairs with a large shoulder-bag, and came out only moments later from the visitor's door beneath the balcony. Merlin listened to the former lead apprentice crunch gravel beneath his boots down the road into the city.

He waited til midnight on the balcony. He needed to know that Jordan had indeed retired for the evening, that Mordred would not return. Then Merlin retired to his own third-floor cell to sleep a few hours on the narrow bed – and woke, as he planned, just before dawn.

It was a weekend day, the one the apprentices were given as a free day, and none of them were stirring. Morgana wouldn't thank him for rousing her with his news, but if she wanted anything done about Mordred, better she knew sooner than later.

After a moment's consideration, he donned his new suit of clothes, then checked to be sure Mordred's room was abandoned, which it was. No surprise there.

He'd never been up to Morgana and Gwaine's rooms on the third floor, and didn't linger to indulge curiosity. He rapped softly on the door of the bedchamber, waited, rapped a second time. He heard Gwaine curse, faintly and groggily, and moments later the door opened.

Gwaine wore only trousers, buttoned but not belted, held up with one hand as he rubbed an eye with the heel of the other hand. "What do you want?" he snarled, before softening his tone with a surprised, "Merlin."

"What is it?" Morgana's voice behind Gwaine was throaty from sleep. Gwaine glanced over his shoulder, moved to block more of Merlin's view of the room.

"Jordan's contracts," Merlin said only.

"Important?" Gwaine checked behind him again.

"Could be."

"Let him in," Morgana said, and Gwaine moved to let him enter. She had her back partially turned, tying the sash of her bed robe, then stretched back out on the rumpled bed as Gwaine closed the door behind him. Merlin stayed by the door, and Gwaine rounded him to drop onto a low chest at the foot of the bed.

"Mordred met with Jordan last night," Merlin stated dispassionately. "He stayed almost an hour. Jordan went to bed, Mordred packed and left the chalet."

Gwaine shifted to look at Morgana. She met his eyes calmly for a moment, then turned her gaze back on Merlin. She looked him over, but didn't comment on the clothes. "You think he's taken Jordan's contracts," she said only.

"It doesn't matter what I think. I'm telling you what I know."

Gwaine shook his head. "Good luck to him, and good riddance. He's been nothing but trouble, here. Saved me having to throw him out, at least." Morgana shrugged, leaning backward to stretch her spine. "Thanks, Merlin," Gwaine added.

It seemed a clear dismissal, but he didn't move. He wasn't an apprentice revenger, leaving decisions to the two of them; like it or not, he was an agent, and this pertained to his case. "What will you do?" he said.

"Doesn't matter what we do," Gwaine answered. "If a revenger decides to take an unjustified contract without permission, that's his business. If he wants to operate illegally, he's on his own."

"Jordan is your guest," Merlin said. "If Mordred does something stupid and gets caught, it could come back to you."

"You want us to throw a client out before we've performed the investigation we've been paid for?" Gwaine said sharply.

"You still think it's a genuine offer?" Merlin returned. "He was probably looking for someone like Mordred to –"

"Thank you for your concern, Agent Merlin," Morgana said. Her posture was an indolent lounge, but her voice was icily formal. It was clear she thought he had overstepped his bounds.

Merlin turned and left, the room and the chalet.

He hadn't yet been introduced to the judge or the reeve or any members of the council, but Arthur had met with these men on various occasions, the judge at least once. If nothing else, Arthur should be made aware of the circumstances. Probably these ten men should be warned, also. No matter what Merlin thought of them or what they'd allowed to occur in their city, punishment should never precede the establishment of guilt.

The housemaid at Number Five Sycamore Avenue didn't hesitate to admit him. Perhaps due to Morgana's gift? Merlin wondered ruefully. _Very well, sir, _and_ Agent Arthur is in the sitting room_, with a nod and a bob of courtesy.

Arthur was seated at the writing desk to the left of the arched doorway, and had only to lift his head to see Merlin enter. "Hm," he said only, with a shrewd glance for his new garb. "Little early for business isn't it - and dressed like that? Or maybe this is a social call? Vivian went for a walk half an hour ago with Freya."

"Reporting new developments," Merlin said tersely, refusing to respond to the agent's jibe, "as ordered."

Arthur's blue eyes narrowed; he set his quill pen in its stand and corked the ink bottle. "Did you eat?" he said, and rose to lead Merlin to the kitchen.

The cook, whom Merlin had never seen before, was half again as large as the housemaid and the curls under her cap were white, but she was still remarkably agile. She was clearly almost finished cleaning up after the family's morning meal, but Arthur teased and smiled, and she finally allowed Merlin a plate of what was left over.

"So?" Arthur said, sitting down next to Merlin at the round kitchen table.

Merlin related the facts to him between mouthfuls, without expression and with as few words as possible. From the intensity of Arthur's concentration, he found the information interesting.

"An agent's job is not only to investigate, or make judgments and arrests," Arthur mused. "We also do what we can to repair the situation before troops are necessary. But having a renegade revenger loose in the city, who may or may not be trying to kill the group of men at once responsible for the crisis, and the only ones with power and position to reverse it, makes things more complicated. I wonder who this man Jordan really is – this couldn't have come at a worse time. I'll have to leave the toll situation in the council's hands and focus on this assassin, now."

"Not many would, or could, spend the kind of money ten kill-contracts cost simply to return a society or economy to a fair balance," Merlin stated. "I'd expect most citizens wouldn't risk what little they have left, to maybe make the conditions worse."

"I think we can assume he has some hidden motive, something else to gain by this than his retainer's fee – or at least someone backing him with the same," Arthur agreed. "Keep an eye on Jordan as much as you can, and keep a lookout for Mordred. The council is in recess today, but I'll go to Reeve Agravaine at least. Tomorrow you and I are scheduled to meet formally with the council, that'll have to be soon enough to warn them, otherwise. If the reeve thinks it's necessary he can appoint watchmen or deputies to warn or guard the council members today."

Merlin nodded understanding and agreement.

"About Morgana, though –" Arthur paused, his eyes keen on Merlin. "She'll do her own investigation to see if these ten personally deserve any revenge?" Merlin nodded again, warily. "You'll keep me apprised of anything you learn," Arthur added, and if it wasn't an order, it was close.

"I'll make it clear that anything told to me is told to an agent," Merlin clarified firmly.

Arthur didn't smile. "It's likely your loyalty to the revengers will at some point clash with your duties as an agent."

Merlin pushed his chair back from the table. "You knew of those loyalties when you got me that writ," he said levelly.

Arthur nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "But don't forget that your writ and this assignment are in place of prison."

Merlin clenched his teeth, crossed his arms over his chest. "Have me flogged," he said.

Arthur shook his head, showing his teeth through the amusement that didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe later," he returned. "I'll go to the reeve's residence right away. You return to the revenger's – no, wait a minute." Arthur glanced at the cook, grunting as she rolled out dough on a flour-covered counter. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Stay a bit and see if you can get Freya to talk to you."

"About the tolls?" Merlin said, frowning.

"No, not about the tolls." Arthur was exasperated. "Something's bothering her, has been ever since we got here. I think she's unhappy for some reason, but her cousins don't seem to notice, and she won't talk to me."

"Why would she talk to me?" Merlin said.

"Just – try, will you?" Exasperation turned into irritation. "She's a nice kid, she deserves some happiness."

"You want me to keep you apprised of anything I learn?" Merlin said sharply.

Arthur's lips twitched. "I'll see you at the Council Palais first thing tomorrow," he said only, gesturing for Merlin to precede him out of the kitchen. He crossed the white stone floor of the entryway, and with a careless wave of farewell he closed the front door behind himself.

Merlin, alone as far as he could hear, wandered through the arched doorway into the sitting room. It was mid-morning, how long would Freya and her cousin be gone on their walk? And how was he going to manage to separate them to talk to Freya privately? If there was something bothering her, it was something Freya evidently couldn't take to her cousins, mother or daughter.

What was _he_ supposed to do?

**A/N: There you have it – a generous portion of plot, with a side order of intrigue. **

**As always, thanks reviewers: unnamed guests, RocknRollagirl - glad you liked the time spent in Ealdor!**


	10. The Council Palais

**Chapter 10: The Council Palais**

Freya had been disappointed to learn that the Daved Cathedral was not within walking distance of Sycamore Avenue, even had the toll-barricades not prevented them from leaving Key Park without extra coin.

Well, it was the closest she could come to wandering the woods.

Vivian moaned about the earliness of the hour as they left the house, but happily chattered and gossiped about the appearance of the other women they met on the walk through the park, everyone trying to enjoy a day off, criticizing clothing and hair styling relentlessly. It didn't serve to comfort or encourage Freya; after three weeks she no longer made any attempt to participate, but her cousin didn't seem to notice or care.

Vivian let them in the front door when the morning grew too warm for her comfort – family was not expected to wait for the maid to admit them – and led Freya straight upstairs, complaining of a headache. She threw herself down on her bed, accepted the cool damp cloth Freya brought for her forehead without thanks, and proclaimed her intention of sleeping until lunchtime.

Freya quietly wet her own cold cloth and rested in her shaded corner of the room for a quarter of an hour, but it didn't help. _It's been only three weeks, and busy weeks_, she reminded herself. _You're still getting used to everything. Give it a chance. You came here for a reason, remember._

To get a new start. To avoid those seeking to regain what Padlow had stolen. The man she'd lived with, without being legally married.

Finally she left Vivian to nap in the dim bedroom and made her way downstairs, intending on a cup of mint tea.

As she went, she thought of Merlin. It had been three weeks since he'd left her so precipitously on her cousins' doorstep. She'd seen him twice since then, fleeting glimpses through the window of him talking to Arthur over the front gate, heard his voice downstairs late at night, reporting to the agent after the family was in bed. She wondered if he was well, meeting old friends, making new ones, if he enjoyed the work to which Arthur put him. She wondered if he'd take the opportunity, one of these days, to disappear into the crowded city, and she'd never see him again.

As she came down the carpeted center of the stone stairs, she glanced to the side and saw a shadow move in the sitting room. The house had been quiet when she and Vivian came home; maybe Randall and Emma had returned, or maybe it was Arthur. Her soft slippers were silent on the stone floor as she crossed the entryway.

A man stood at the front window, his back to her, dressed immaculately in tailored charcoal-gray trousers and close-fitting deep red vest, the shirt beneath white and crisp, full sleeves buttoned at the cuff. He was in the act of reaching sideways as if to touch the strings of the harp on its stand in the corner, fingers hovering, not quite daring.

Nothing gave him away, and yet everything. He wore the clothes unself-consciously, he'd even put on a few pounds of muscle. His black hair had grown to a normal length, and the outline of his profile against the sunlit window betrayed a dozen identifying details to someone who knew him well.

Her heart performed another leap and flutter right into her throat, and she couldn't have spoken if she'd tried – unless she also wanted to giggle giddily or burst into tears.

She saw in that instant the potential she'd seen in him before, what sort of man he might have been if not for the tragic loss of his family – his long fingers and strong hands so skillful and inexorable with a knife or in a fistfight might easily have been instead those of a beauty-loving musician. Was all that gone forever? Would his hands never know peaceful pursuits, creativity?

He turned then, saw her, and came toward her, enough so she could see his initial reaction before it faded; his eyes moved over her in the way she was still unused to in strangers, but instead of the greedy gleam she feared, his clear blue eyes held a subtle admiration that warmed her to her toes.

"Look at us," he said. "Far cry from Emmett's Creek, don't you think?"

She smiled involuntarily, thinking of the ragged scarecrow he'd been, the silly look of Gwen's dresses and shoes too big on her, but tears came into her eyes, too. Through that blur she saw him move closer, but when she blinked, the tears tumbled down her cheeks. And then he pulled the neatly-folded kerchief from the breast pocket of the vest, offered it to her.

"I'm sorry," she said. Two more tears followed as if eager to try the tracks made by the first.

"Are they not treating you well?" Merlin demanded. His hands were on his hips, his brows drawn down over thunderous eyes.

"No – I mean, yes, they are," she answered, wiping her eyes and attempting a laugh. "I'm sorry, don't mind me. Did you come to see Arthur? or Randall?"

"I saw Arthur earlier," he said. The frown was still there. Then he added, "I stayed to see you."

She tried to stifle a sudden sob, and couldn't. And then her shoulders were shaking and she couldn't catch a breath to stop crying. She turned her back on him so he couldn't see.

"Freya," he said, sounding so uncharacteristically helpless that her tears fell faster. After a moment, he tried, "Can you – talk about it?"

She shook her head, looking around the cool, faultless, richly-furnished room. A far cry from Emmett's Creek, he'd said. They were dressed to tour the Daved Cathedral or attend an evening performance at a theatre. It seemed so silly now, for her to have made such a horrific mistake.

"I couldn't," she said, with a little despairing laugh, and gestured with her hand. "Not here."

She felt him move to her side, but he stayed silent and didn't touch her. She wouldn't have been surprised, or blamed him at all, if he walked right out of the house without another word. Instead he surprised her by saying, "Do you want to walk for a while?"

And that was how she found herself pacing through Key Park again that morning, past the vegetable gardens that had become necessary as well as fashionable, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, pouring out her homesickness for Shasta and Gaius. Pouring out the dozen embarrassments she'd felt, coming from a tiny country town to a well-off city merchant's household, the humility necessary to accept the large new wardrobe ordered for her, the visits already made from eligible bachelors, the plans for more of the same, every day.

Her diatribe finally ran down and she sniffled into silence and control. Using the limply-damp kerchief one more time, she risked a glance up into his face. He still wore a faint frown, his concentration on the flagstones a few feet in front of their steps. He crossed his arms over his chest, which pulled her hand tighter and closer, defined the muscle in his arm, but she didn't protest or try to pull away. It made her feel –

"It seems to me like there's something else," he said suddenly. "Something getting in the way of you making the adjustment to life here." He glanced at her from beneath his brows. "Something that makes you miss confiding in Shasta and Gaius?"

She took a deep breath, surprised at how calm she felt. "Viv was talking to me, the night we arrived. She said some things, about marriage… Shasta used to try to talk to me about – these things, but I thought she was just trying to persuade me to leave… my husband." At that, Freya forced a laugh, though it sounded bitter to her ears. "She'd tell me to talk to Gaius, but I couldn't – not to a man."

He stopped walking and just looked at her.

"Turns out," she said fatalistically, "I was never married. Not legally. I lived with him for the winters of four years, and I was never actually his wife – no wonder he laughed at me! And when I told you that he married me, I meant that he – that he –"

It was too much; her tears flowed freely once more.

The tears, and the words, all jumbled together, how she wanted a sweet warm baby like Helen's, how if Emma and Vivian knew the truth they wouldn't let her stay, wouldn't ever allow her to marry – not that she wanted to, of course, but to have that cuddly, loving baby. It was hypocritical of her to keep meeting the men they introduced her to, but she thought about this through all their conversations, knowing that if they were interested in proposing marriage to her, she would have to tell them that her first marriage had been a lie. And then there would be gossip, and everyone would look at her the way Emmett's Creek folk had, despising her for a… a…

And she found herself seated on the stone steps in front of Number Five, Merlin next to her with his arms clasped around her shoulders, she spilling tears and words into the shoulder of his vest and the collar of his shirt. She calmed slowly, resting exhausted against him even though she knew she shouldn't, indulging the warmth that his encircling arms sent waving through her.

Any minute now, she thought, he would release her, speak words of cold condemnation, turn his back on her. Any minute now…

But he didn't.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

She looked up at him, and in doing so sat back a little. Merlin let his arms fall back to his sides, leaned back on the step above where he was sitting, keeping his face blank.

"You're not surprised," she said only, and he couldn't read her expression or her tone, for the first time. Was she angry? hurt?

He kept his own tone neutral. "Shasta told me – enough."

"She told you?" Freya turned from him, hiding her face in her hands.

"Before I came to Emmett's Creek," he said, "I was hunting the murderer of my family, intending on killing him. As painful a death as I could manage. My plan from the very beginning included taking his family from him as mine had been taken from me." Her face was still turned aside, but he could tell she was listening intently. "It wasn't long before I discovered that – losing you – would hurt him little."

"If at all," Freya said softly, without bitterness. "He would have been angry, I think, but hurt… no." She looked at him again, then, her dark beautiful eyes luminous with unshed tears.

His heart slammed against his ribcage once, inexplicably, and he looked away. "Gaius guessed my intent," he continued. "Whether he told Shasta or not, she – what she told me, she meant to make sure I wouldn't hurt you in any way, to tell me that you'd been hurt enough. She meant, I think, to make sure I followed through on – facing him, but to do so when you would not be in any danger. She wasn't trying to – betray your confidence."

Freya sighed, let her head drop down. Her hair, he noticed, had been rolled and braided and pinned up on her head in a pretty – and no doubt, stylish – way. It left her neck bare, and she looked vulnerable with her head bowed, in her pretty black dress with tiny white embroidered flowers, lace at the hems and cuffs and neckline.

"So you know the worst of me, then," she said dully. "You must think me stupid-"

"Stop it," he said suddenly, maybe too harshly.

His chest was tight with remembering how slight she had felt in his arms, how totally she had abandoned herself to his embrace, trusting him. It wasn't right for her to be so hard on herself – she was one of the very few who tried to do the right thing no matter the cost to herself.

"Shasta said, your mother taught you – and then you were young and alone. The wrong was his, and only his. Shasta told me, you couldn't question your mother's teaching, that you tried to be a good wife to him in spite of – everything. And that was the truth…" He struggled for words, sensing that she was not completely reassured. "I once heard of a wife, seeking revenge on her husband's mistress – only to find the poor lady had been duped herself, that the unfaithful husband had lied to her also, and staged a false wedding. She had no idea of the other wife, and believed herself married. She had nothing to reproach herself for – just as you do not."

"It doesn't change the fact that she was not truly married," Freya said sadly. "Ignorance doesn't make you any less guilty of – of – impurity."

Merlin shook his head vehemently. "That was between you and him – and he's gone. You tell no one, you understand me? No one else has any right to know. If you find a man you want to spend your life with, then maybe, and if he deserves you, he'll understand. And if he doesn't –"

He was aware he was scowling fiercely, and relaxed his hands from the fists they'd made, standing and moving down to the level of the front area, several steps below her.

She stared up at him for a moment, again unreadable. Then she smiled, a slow, sure smile that made her rather plain face breathtakingly radiant. And before he could move to stop her, she stood up straight into his arms, winding her own tightly around his middle.

Shocked, he froze. It seemed only one turbulent second that they stood so – was he trying to loosen her arms, or hold her more closely to him? – before they were interrupted by a scandalized female voice.

"Freya!"

It was Emma and Randall, entering the gate and coming up the walk. Emma's face was red and flustered as she literally pulled Freya away from him.

"Have you no propriety, cousin? Embracing a man right here on the street – in full view of the neighbors?" She hustled a startled Freya up the stairs into the house; Randall stayed for a few words with Merlin.

"A little more discretion, if you please?" the older man said dryly. "Sparking on the front porch might do for the country, but here it can get you married."

Merlin inclined his head with half a smile. "I thank you for the warning, sir," he said. "Ah, sir?" he added as Randall passed him to mount the stairs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palm-sized green leather purse. "From the sale of her horses and wagon," he explained. "I didn't get a chance to give it to her yet."

Randall gave him a shrewd look before accepting the pouch with a nod. "If you plan to come calling in a more formal social manner, I feel I must give permission for Freya the same as for my daughter Vivian. If not…" He inclined his head politely, but left Merlin with the distinct feeling he'd been warned away from Freya as surely as Reeve Whatley had once done.

As Merlin turned to leave, he noticed the nearest neighbor to the north was out on her own front porch, watching. How long had she been there? It mattered nothing to Merlin, but he'd be sorry to make things harder for Freya with her new neighbors. He reached to tip his hat, but realized belatedly he wasn't wearing it. The lady bristled as at an insult, turning an ugly red, and bustled back into her house.

He shrugged and went his way.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Emma continued her pointed, if gentle, reprimand in the entryway as she stripped off her light silk gloves, but Freya was only half-listening.

She felt very little embarrassment, and was surprised at that. Had she no propriety, as Emma had said? But the gesture she had made to Merlin had felt so natural, a token of her thanks – for his time, his attention, the gentle and caring way he'd listened to her, tried to comfort her.

Though she was forced to admit, there had been a fleeting moment, just before Emma's interruption, when she thought she felt Merlin sway toward her slightly, when she thought she felt the subtle beginning of a change in his reaction to her.

"My dear girl," Emma said, breaking into her thoughts with fond exasperation, putting her hands on Freya's shoulders to look directly into her eyes. "Do I have to caution you against giving your heart away so easily and obviously? If you expect to find a good match here in Turad, you _must_ be more circumspect. He is a young, unattached gentleman – an agent, so of course his honor is unquestionable, but they _do_ lead quite a transitory life, highly unsuitable – and others who might see you with him will not know that you have a completely innocent familiarity with him. There will be an instant assumption that your reputation is compromised. When you are safely and well married, you can be more open in your friendship with someone like an unmarried agent, as long as your husband has no concerns over it, do you understand?"

How awkward that would be.

Freya suddenly imagined herself and a faceless husband, properly side by side in a spotless sitting room, as Merlin scrutinized her new husband from across the room, and both of them thought about Padlow in comparison. It would have to be a one-in-a-million gentleman, she thought, who would understand her history and accept her anyway, accept her friends in Emmett's Creek without prejudice, accept her feelings about Merlin without jealousy and with trust. None of the few she'd met so far had come close to that standard.

She sighed, nodding her answer to Emma. How many more would she have to meet before she found a man like that?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The Council Palais was a square block of a building, taller than the prison by at least two floors, with a columned promenade in the front and wide stone steps that had been laid purposefully uneven, Merlin knew, so that one couldn't run lightly up to the doors, but had to slow down and watch the footing with care to avoid tripping. It was an imposing structure, the uniformed guards mainly ceremonial, without any real authority except within the Palais itself. He'd been past it countless times as a revenger, and as an agent he'd visited the clerks in the Outer Chamber a handful of times to compare his notes with theirs.

This was the first time he'd set foot in the Inner Chamber.

It was a large square room with a door at each corner and a massive rectangular table set in the middle, flanked by eight identical red-velvet clad armchairs with head-high backs, solid dark wood all, and two more at the head and foot of the table. The walls were wood-paneled, lined with portraits of solemn men, august to the point of apoplexy, stylish in every era of dress. Former council members, Merlin guessed.

They were early; no one was present in the Inner Chamber as the Senior Clerk showed them in. Merlin remained by the door, back to the wall, hands behind his back, waiting. Arthur took a circuit of the room, examining the gentlemen in the portraits, his boots silent on the thick dark brown carpeting.

"How do you like being an agent?" Arthur said casually, his back to Merlin. When Merlin didn't answer, he added, still without turning, "Give much thought to a permanent writ?"

Why was it anyone's concern what he did? Morgana wanted him to be a junior partner as a revenger, Arthur thought he should be an agent. Emmett's Creek wanted him for reeve. And he found himself thinking more and more about Chadin's little family, and the horse ranch.

"Ah, Agent Arthur," came a voice from across the room.

Before he even looked around, Merlin formed an instant opinion of the speaker, hating him with an intensity that surprised him. He thought, older man, overweight, steeped to bitterness in his own importance, condescension a habit because his belief in his own superiority runs bone-deep.

"Good morning, Reeve," Arthur said, remaining where he was as the other entered through the open door and came sauntering across the carpet.

Reeve Agravaine was clean-shaven and pallid, mid-forties, thick through the middle, dark hair all combed slickly back from his face. His hands pushed the tails of his jacket back to rest in his pockets.

"This is my colleague, Agent Merlin," Arthur added.

Two more well-dressed men entered behind the reeve, one cricket-like in statue and manner, with a pointed white beard, the other with greased light brown hair and three chins pushed upward by a tall stiff collar. Turad's reeve nodded to Merlin without speaking or crossing the room for a more personal salutation. His eyes were stone gray, his bonhomie, Merlin knew instinctively, no more than a mask.

Merlin thought, _he has something against me_.

And he was suddenly extra-sensitive to three more council members entering the Inner Chamber behind him, the five exchanging greetings and pleasantries across the table, but with faint unidentifiable undercurrents. He was aware of the echoing murmur of business conducted in the enormous Outer Chamber, the missing weight of a long knife at his hip, the subtle reassuring pressure of his boot blade at the back of his ankle. He shrugged out of the form-fitting formal jacket that matched the charcoal-gray trousers, let it drop to the carpeting by the paneled wall. Too bad if any of the gentlemen considered it rude; he smelled trouble and wanted more ease and freer range of movement.

"Good morning, Judge Alined," said one of the five as another two entered behind Merlin.

He shifted to get a look at the judge while keeping the reeve in view.

Alined was an older man, overweight in a grave and important way. He accepted the deference shown by the council as his due, simpering and nodding and gesturing like a prince to the populace. Merlin thought he enjoyed his position of power more than was good for him; he didn't take his seat at the head of the table, but stood with his hands clasping the high back of the chair.

"Be seated, gentlemen," he said, in a whiny voice that grated on Merlin's ears.

One more councilman scooted in from the doorway next to Merlin, sliding into his seat as the others took their time arranging themselves more comfortably. He looked to be younger than any of the others by more than half a decade, maybe only a few years Arthur's senior. He didn't ask that his tardiness be excused, Merlin noticed – at the same time he was aware that Agravaine did not take the empty seat at the foot of the table, but remained next to Arthur.

And Judge Alined was armed. Three knives that Merlin could tell, maybe more. Did Arthur see that? Surely that was unusual for a council meeting. Judge Alined had been cordial, Arthur told him after his first meeting with him a little over a fortnight ago, but noncommittal, and unwilling to discuss details, even with an agent.

What did the judge expect from this meeting, that he came armed to the teeth in the presence of his reeve?

"Gentleman, we have been called here this morning, as you all know," the judge began in a self-important voice, "to meet as a group with the agents sent by our gov'ment to address what Cam'lot sees as a 'situation.' " He paused, but no one said anything; not all the men were meeting the gaze he sent around the table. "This is the first of sev'ral such meetings, as many as are necess'ry to satisfy our agents, and don't be overly concerned, gentlemen, your private, personal schedules will be taken into account completely during discussion of the length and frequency of these meetings."

Merlin was reminded strongly of one junior officer he'd met in Sage Springs. That lieutenant had wanted to build barracks for the cadets and a house for the officers, stables for their horses, not even recognizing his suggestion as a tacit assumption of early failure. Admitting such a permanence for proceedings meant to swiftly alleviate the tension of the situation here in Turad amounted to building barracks.

"However," Judge Alined continued, "I have been informed that Agent Arthur – whom I assume all of us have become acquainted with since his arrival in our fair city – has come to Reeve Agravaine and myself with certain intelligence important enough to take precedence over all other items on this morning's agenda. Agent Arthur?"

Arthur stepped to the chair at the foot of the table, leaned his folded arms over the high back as he began to earnestly describe – without naming Merlin or Morgana or Jordan specifically – what Merlin had seen and heard at the chalet two days previously. The judge's narrowed eyes on him told Merlin that these names had been entrusted to Alined and Agravaine, whether or not Arthur mentioned them here today.

It made him feel vulnerable, open to attack. Alined's expression was not one of gratitude, but resentment.

He moved without consciously willing his feet to take a single step, swiftly yet unobtrusively circling the room to take a position between Arthur and the reeve, without approaching Agravaine directly. He knew Arthur considered the man several long steps above Whatley, a fairly political figure with enough deputies that he didn't have to involved himself in the more physical side of his duties. Suave and experienced.

Merlin couldn't have explained his reaction to seeing Arthur turn his back on Reeve Agravaine, but the judge's eyes remained on him as he moved. He was careful to keep Alined in view, too.

The judge had been told about the possibility of a death-contract with his name on it, and that was reason enough to go armed. But if a man wanted to deter violence, he wore his weapon obviously. A hidden blade meant a person was ready to defend if attacked, expected attack – even welcomed attack? All of Merlin's senses were heightened in anticipation, even as all of his reason said this was the last place to expect a fight.

"Is this confirmed information?" the youngest member on the end at Arthur's left said suddenly, glancing up at him, then down to the judge. "We know for a fact that this fellow intends to kill all of us, or as many of us as he can?"

"Without revealing sources," Arthur answered delicately, but Merlin could tell he was giving them his most engaging smile, "I would say there is definite danger to each one of you. I would recommend keeping time spent alone – day or night – to a minimum, not opening your door to strangers, and finding a trusted friend who is accustomed to physical defense, to accompany you out-of-doors."

At that, the meeting devolved into an incredulous argument, member against member. Merlin, silent against the wall behind Arthur, listened to them declare disbelief of the danger, expound on the dire straits that brought about death threats to the council, and demand an increase in tolls to support paid bodyguards, more deputies to hunt down assassins.

"The very idea of ten death-contracts – ten!"

"Increase the tolls, I say, then we can appoint –"

"It's preposterous, and I refuse –"

"Can't be done, don't you see, and that's the fault of –"

Arthur straightened and backed away from the table. As soon as he reached a point where he could catch any move Reeve Agravaine made for himself, Merlin moved again also, still circling the room slowly, next to the wall. He felt he had to move, or explode.

"If council members aren't even safe, surely you must agree that we –"

"Funding for more deputies to catch this assassin, though of course there could be-"

"I don't believe for a minute –"

"Surely now you see the consequences of –"

"If you recall, I warned the council months ago of the danger of –"

Merlin increased his pace. Why was it he couldn't just leave the room, walk out and keep walking? He passed one doorway, two.

The judge watched him pass, his eyes unfriendly, calculating, one hand moving slowly inside his jacket. The awareness of his hidden steel was there, in the glance that flickered over Merlin's person as if assessing him for similar secrets. Alined made no attempt to calm or quiet the members of the council, though he was, by Arthur's description, the acting chair of the council.

Merlin passed around the head of the room, the judge watching every step. He slowed again, pacing as though stepping off the room's measurements, balance perfect at every step. Arthur was back at the table, trying to address concerns, three and four at a time.

Reeve Agravaine stood waiting, watching Merlin also. Waiting? For what? Those undercurrents he had sensed were stronger, now.

When he reached a point an arms' length from the reeve he stopped, then stepped purposefully to the table, backwards to keep his eyes on Agravaine the whole way. Arthur moved to the side to allow him room without pausing in two current conversations. Merlin put his hand against the high back of the unoccupied chair and tipped it deliberately, tipped it til gravity took hold and it crashed to the floor.

Silence.

Merlin turned to find all eyes on him, as he'd intended. Safe then to stand with his back to the reeve. He still didn't like it much, it gave him an itch between his shoulder blades, but – _make the most of it_.

"Fourteen," he said into the silence. Scowls and uncertainty. "Fourteen apprentices fell to their deaths from rooftops in the last eight months, trying to make deliveries without passing through toll barricades. The oldest was eleven." He began circling again, skirting Arthur and the fallen chair to stay right behind the council members. "Thirty-three," he spoke again. "Infants dead in their first week due to starvation, and malnutrition in their mothers."

He reached the head of the table and stopped face to face with Judge Alined.

"Forty-seven dead in a radius of five miles from Turad's walls, starved or killed by raiders – farmers' families mostly, raiders and dead both." He rounded the judge and continued down the other side of the table. "Fifty-six suicides since the beginning of winter, folks trying to spare their families the cost of their food. Most were over the age of sixty-seven, the rest between fourteen and nineteen."

No one spoke. Even Arthur, who knew these numbers also, didn't say a word, only watched him.

"One hundred and twelve. Deaths by drowning since your precious measure passed last year. Folks trying to catch fish for their food in the river, or carry their own water. Because the extra tolls have drained every spare coin."

Merlin stopped, meeting each man's gaze with a furious glare til they all had dropped their eyes. He turned and retraced his steps back to the judge, but watching the seated councilmen.

"Not enough for you to _make the damn necessary changes_? Shall I recite the amounts collected from each new toll barricade personally overseen by each councilman here? Maybe you'd be interested to know how much your colleagues are squeezing from the people they were chosen to represent!"

He reached the judge again, stalking now on his toes, fingers trembling at his sides. He was aware that his voice had risen, also.

"Or maybe you'd rather hear how much the judge's office has taken in legal fees and fines over the last year, due to the rise in crime," Merlin added. He wasn't entirely unprepared for Alined to take a swing at him, purple-faced with anger and embarrassment as he was, but it wasn't hard to dodge the blow. "Twice as rich as you were this time last year, Your Honor?" he inquired mockingly. "Can you blame the people for wanting you dead?"

Then turned on his heel to leave the Inner Chamber.

"Now just one minute," came the angry, pompous voice behind him.

_Don't touch me_, Merlin thought, closing his eyes and bracing himself in the doorway. He couldn't help thinking of those three knives, and the skin of his back shuddered under his fine clothes. _Just don't touch me_ –

When Judge Alined grabbed his shoulder roughly, he reacted instantly, capturing the judge's wrist and twisting around behind him. For a moment they faced the room this way, the judge with his arm caught high behind his back, Merlin behind in the position of control. The council was still in shock, but Arthur was coming up the far side of the table, and the reeve was hustling to his judge's defense on the near side.

Merlin released the judge – who was far more able to defend himself than these men probably realized – and Alined stumbled forward as if from a strong shove.

Undercurrents. What was really going on? Arthur had mentioned no animosity, no overt displeasure or aggressive uncooperativeness. He had taken the judge's age and rank into account, and had reacted almost gently, considering. Why would the judge be playing up the rough treatment?

"How dare you!" gasped Judge Alined, clutching his chest, stooping his shoulders.

"Don't touch me," Merlin said quietly, trying to keep his anger in. He addressed the judge, but included the reeve in the warning with his eyes. Did it seem to Arthur as though they were pushing him, or would the other agent be angry with him for losing his temper unnecessarily? He only knew he was through with the polite inaction that had brought things to this state.

If action was needed, if that was what they asked of him – he turned and started for the door. He'd head out of town again, do what he could in the villages around Turad.

"Don't turn your back," the reeve growled behind him, "you motherless –"

Merlin swerved, took one long step back as Agravaine's arm shot over his left shoulder. He gripped the arm wrist and armpit, bent and heaved, and the surprised reeve tumbled over Merlin's shoulder to the ground.

Exclamations erupted behind him as the reeve, disoriented, tried to scramble to his feet.

"Merlin," Arthur said somewhere behind him, and his voice held warning.

He turned, fully expecting the judge to lunge or throw one of his knives. Instead, he was sinking back into one of the chairs, assisted by the nearest councilman.

"Gentlemen, you must forgive my colleague," Arthur said to the other members. Some listened to him, some stared at Merlin, some watched Agravaine regain his feet. "Sometimes these reflexes are so ingrained –"

"Arrest him," the judge demanded, breath puffing, hand still clutching his shirtfront over his heart. "He attacked me. He might have broken my arm, or – or thrown me to the floor like he did to our good reeve. We cannot allow this violence to go unpunished. Reeve Agravaine, arrest this man."

"Don't touch him," Arthur said quickly, past Merlin to the reeve. "Your Honor, please rest for a time, then you can reconsider –"

"I want him arrested!" Alined insisted, in a voice surprisingly strong for one so obviously near to collapse. "Agent, do your duty. Obey me, and arrest him. Tie his hands, take him to the reeve's holding cells." Arthur didn't immediately move, standing at the judge's side and looking down into his lined face.

Agravaine was hovering to Merlin's right, keeping his distance for the moment. The council members were mostly silent; the latecomer at the far end was speaking in a low voice to his neighbor, the cricket-like man with the pointed white beard.

Then Arthur turned and came to Merlin, reaching past him for a length of cord that Agravaine produced, putting gentle pressure on Merlin's shoulder to encourage him to turn his back.

"You're really going to do this?" Merlin demanded incredulously, trying to keep his voice low. His fingertips still tingled for a fight.

Arthur's eyes were on the reeve as he answered, "A judge may order an agent to make an arrest," he said. "A judge may order an agent to be arrested. I cannot disobey him and still demand they honor the authority of my writ."

"I didn't even hit him," Merlin pointed out, trying to remain calm. "Either of them."

"Believe me, no one appreciates that fact more than I do," Arthur said with a tired crooked smile. "Go with him now, we'll sort this out later." He pushed harder, and Merlin allowed his shoulders to turn slightly, enough for Arthur to access his wrists. "That's the most I've ever heard you say at one time," he commented as he tied the cord over the cuffs of Merlin's shirt, careful of the old rope-burn scars.

"I'll say one more thing," Merlin returned, speaking in the same low tone. "I am about through with all of this."

"I'll come by later," Arthur said only. "We have plenty to discuss."

**A/N: Well? *grins* How's that for straightening Freya out (which conversation several reviewers anticipated correctly)? And Agravaine and Alined in the same room? *grins even wider* **

**Happy weekend!**


	11. The Holding Cells

**Chapter 11: The Holding Cells**

Freya had spent the morning in her cousins' vegetable plot in Key Park.

She had felt somehow refreshed and energized when she woke that morning, as though a new life had truly begun, and all things were possible. As she weeded and watered she thought about Merlin, about his and Arthur's task in the city. About those who had suffered in this city – and those who were sworn to end that.

As she rounded the chest-high stone wall that surrounded the park, basket on her arm, trying to clean the dirt from her hands with her apron, she saw Agent Arthur pass the great sycamore and stride furiously up the street to Number Five. She hailed him twice before he looked up, and at his expression she hurried to cross the street.

It was evident that he was in a black mood, and impatient. As she came up to him, out of breath, she saw he carried a charcoal-gray jacket. His own suit was a blue so deep it was almost black, but that gray could be –

"Is that Merlin's?" she said.

He glanced down as if he'd forgotten what he held. "Yes," he answered.

"What happened?"

When he looked at her, his blue eyes were distant and thoughtful. "That is a very good question," he said softly.

"You met with the council this morning?" Freya asked, remembering the plans he'd outlined with Randall that morning as the family finished breakfast.

"He spoke to them, to the council," Arthur said, still distantly, as if still processing the events in his mind as he spoke.

"Merlin did?"

"Yes." He frowned, his eyes drifting away from her. "He grew quite… passionate. The judge was offended, Merlin tried to leave but… but how could they know he'd react that way?"

"What way?" Freya said, her heart sinking. Did she really have to ask that question? How did Merlin ever react? "Was anyone hurt?"

"They arrested him," Arthur said, turning to unlatch the gate. He held it for her to enter, but took the front steps two at a time ahead of her.

She hurried after him, through the front door he left swinging open. She shut it quietly, then stepped to the doorway of the sitting room. Arthur was scratching hastily across a sheet of paper without taking the time to sit at the writing desk. Emma and Vivian had planned to use the morning to decide on changes to Vivian's wardrobe for the summer; Freya assumed they were still upstairs.

"Do me a favor," Arthur said. "Find a post rider who'll go to Camelot and back as fast as humanly possible. I'm going to see Merlin at the reeve's holding cells. There's something wrong here, something else going on."

"May I come with you?" Freya said, daring as calmly as she could. "We could find a rider on our way to the holding cells. Merlin isn't going anywhere, after all."

"Are you sure?" he said skeptically, inking his quill and continuing to scribble swiftly.

She thought of Merlin's first night in Emmett's Creek, his few hours spent in Whatley's cell, and didn't answer. He had seemed so much more in control since they'd left Ealdor, if not happy and content, then at least stable. He'd walked with her and talked with her, listened to her and offered advice with no glaring, no stalking away. She didn't want to lose any of what he'd gained. She didn't want him to return to the gaunt lone wolf he'd been last spring. Could her presence there prevent that? She didn't know, but something drew her to him all the same. She wanted to see for herself if he was all right.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What they bring you in for?"

The speaker was a middle-aged man, iron-gray hair and deep lines creasing his face. He sat on the cell's only cot and leaned against the bars dividing the two cells, arms and ankles crossed.

"Assault, I suppose." Merlin paced the tiny cell, eyeing every inch of the reeve's holding.

The two cells were separated from the rest of the room by bars on three sides, and the brick back wall on the fourth. It was a large square room, a row of windows high on the south wall, only two doors – one through which they'd pushed Merlin, through the front hall and past the reeve's office, the other in the back wall, just beyond the bars of the cell they were in. Where did that lead? Was it more than a back door to the narrow alley behind the holding?

Why did they want him here?

"You s'pose?" the man challenged, with humor. "Who'd you s'pose you assaulted?"

Merlin didn't answer. He kept pacing, but slowly. He needed movement, but he couldn't allow panic at the small space, the confinement. Turn and walk again.

"Well, I wasn't staying," the man said. "Was just almost out, when I heard 'em opening the door to bring you in." He uncrossed his arms, producing a pair of slender steel picks. "You're welcome to come with, if you don't get in my way."

Merlin snorted. By the looks of the locks on the cells, he could've been out in five minutes with that set of picks, himself, and he was by no means a professional. This one was not what he appeared… but why? Why would they arrest him, only to assist him in breaking out? No one who truly wished him free could have known about the arrest in time to have this man waiting for him here.

The man didn't seem offended, didn't ask for an explanation, just knelt at the lock with a grunt and a cracking of his knees. "Out in a jiffy," he muttered.

Arthur had mentioned the over-crowding of the prison due to increased crime. Why was the reeve's holding so silent and empty?

"All by yourself this morning?" Merlin remarked. He'd have expected a guard or two in the cell room, at least.

The man looked at him and grinned. "All by my lonesome," he said, without pausing in his work.

Merlin pressed, "Is that your luck or mine?"

A quicker glance, and keener. "You catch on fast, don't you?" And the door sprung open with a creak. "Come on," the lockpick said, without waiting to see if someone was alerted by the sound.

Merlin moved more slowly. Every sense seemed to tingle with wrongness. The charade continued, it seemed, but to what purpose? And they'd taken his boot knife when they brought him here.

"Out the back," the older man suggested, rounding their cell to the left. He paused when Merlin didn't follow.

"Good luck to you," Merlin said, nodding whatever thanks the man was due. He exited the cell and instead went to the door leading to the front hall and the reeve's office.

"Back is better," the lockpick insisted. "No one to see."

Merlin didn't answer. He listened at the heavy iron-bound door, then eased it open. No one was in evidence in the front hall or the reeve's office, and the windows here were too high to see anything but sky. Where had Reeve Agravaine and his deputy gone after locking Merlin in?

"You're on your own, then," the other man called as he let the door swing shut behind him.

Strictly speaking, Merlin considered, he hadn't broken out of the cell. Hadn't even left the reeve's holding. If he intended to stay in Turad as an agent, he couldn't become a fugitive today; it would make it ten times harder for Arthur to smooth things over, with the council here and with his superiors in Camelot, if it went that far.

Perhaps that was why it had been so convenient for that lockpick to free them both, and with no other witnesses or obstacles like attendant deputies. And although it had to discredit the two of them and their authority considerably for him to be walked from the Palais and through the streets a bound prisoner, was that really a strong enough reason to risk discovery? The shock on the council members' faces had been genuine, he thought, but he hadn't had the time to study them individually. Be interesting to see what Arthur thought.

Meanwhile, here he was, with a general sort of freedom, and an unoccupied reeve's office. He didn't suppose he could keep his boot knife if he found it, but they couldn't search him for information he gathered.

There was no door to the reeve's office, so he stepped in and began to scan the paperwork left loose on the desk. He didn't expect a signed confession, nor yet anything especially incriminating, but to get a feel for the man, his ambitions and his fears, maybe, would be helpful.

There seemed to be a double handful of personal correspondence, of little value except for two names he recognized as leading citizens of the city, though not council members. Each was written in similarly vague terms, but seemed to promise political support. He seated himself to open a desk drawer, found four copies of the same letter, lacking addresses and signature, asking for a pledge of confidence, soliciting a promise of support in _future endeavors_.

What was the reeve campaigning for? In Merlin's experience, a reeve, once elected, kept his office til a rival petitioned for another election, or he himself chose to resign. And there had not been a whisper of either circumstance.

As he closed the drawer, a piece of folded paper half-under the desk caught his attention, and he bent to pick it up. Unfolding it, he discovered that it was part of a larger sheet that had evidently been ripped up, this piece perhaps dropped and overlooked.

He read, _volatile and easily provoke-… -ake care in arrestin-… -ed will assist you. After… while trying to esca_-… Not much obvious information, but the implications could be suspicious. Arthur would –

His thoughts were interrupted by a distant shouting from the street outside. He took a chance, tucking the paper into an inner pocket in his vest, as he heard the street door, out of sight down the front hall, fly open.

"- All escaping prisoners!" someone was shouting.

Merlin leaned back in the reeve's chair, hands behind his head, waiting. Booted feet rushed down the hall; one deputy passed the reeve's office door, intent on reaching the cells. The second one glanced in and stopped.

"Here he is, Bud!" he bawled.

Merlin barely had time to notice that they were carrying clubs like those wielded by the cadet corps in Sage Springs. With no preamble whatsoever, the second deputy rushed him, club raised.

Why they had chosen to attack instead of demanding answers or his peaceful return to the cell, didn't concern him at the moment. If he made no move at all, he would be bludgeoned, and hard.

He kicked the deputy just below the kneecap with the heel of his boot, catching the club in his hands as it descended. He used the man's grip on the weapon against him, pulling himself upright from the chair and yanking the deputy down at the same time.

Bud had returned, was close on his fellow's heels, club also raised with intent clear in his eyes. Merlin vaulted the reeve's desk as the third entered.

In such close quarters, they were no match for him. No blows landed on his body, being blocked by the club he'd appropriated, or by them getting in each other's way. He kicked, punched with his left hand, head-butted like a fighting ram, and even bit someone's elbow once when one man tried to break his nose with it. But when the shuffle of the scuffle left him with his back to the doorway, he took his chance to run.

The fight had lasted moments only, his quick search of the reeve's office not much longer. The middle-aged lockpick with the creased face might be three or four blocks away only, or back in the custody of other deputies already. Merlin had no clear plan of finding him to force a confession, nor yet of escaping out the back door – that might be good strategy for a bar-fight in a town he cared nothing for, but wouldn't serve here.

If he remained in the holding and allowed them to corner him, he could let them demand he lay down his club and return to the cell…

Bursting through the door to the cell area, he met two more deputies coming through the back entrance, each with club raised and looking eager to use it.

He made no attempt to block either door, though five to one wasn't odds he'd bet on in a fight. Blows began to land on his arms, shoulders, back, since he was mostly defending, but none hard enough to break bone or numb nerves in an incapacitating way. He backed to a corner, kept blocking the flurry of blows as best he could.

But none of them called for his surrender.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The post rider Arthur had finally found was only one street over from the reeve's holding cells, and seemed glad to take a commission from an agent.

Maybe his pay was more certain from an agent, Freya thought. At least he promised to change horses whenever it was expedient, to reach Camelot and return with a reply as soon as he possibly could. Arthur promised a bonus for each day he could come before expected. Sixteen days could be done.

"Now, if Reeve Agravaine will let me speak to Merlin privately," Arthur was saying, as he opened the street door of the reeve's holding, and held it for her to enter first.

The front hall wasn't wide, and no one was in sight. Freya preceded Arthur to the open door of what appeared to be the reeve's office.

"Hello?" she called politely, though the room appeared deserted – the room appeared… Papers from the desk had been swept to the floor, the chair knocked over. Even the heavy wooden desk was askew.

"Damn," Arthur said, grim and succinct. Then his head came up, listening.

She listened too, heard muffled noises from the interior of the building that raised no alarm in her but had definitely alerted Arthur. He swung himself out of the office and was yanking open the door at the end of the hall when Freya emerged. She joined him quickly, but stopped in the doorway, holding the door open against the wall with one hand, aghast.

Four – no, five men in brown deputy's uniforms, armed with smooth truncheons, were circling a lone man like a flock of vultures, trading flurries of blows like beating wings keeping them aloft. They fought so quickly and furiously, Freya would not have recognized Merlin if she hadn't already seen him wearing those gray trousers and deep red vest.

She gasped in terror for him, before she saw he was armed himself with one of those clubs, swinging so viciously and skillfully it seemed none of them dared get close enough to land a damaging blow. His shirt was torn; though she saw no blood, she was aware that such weapons would bruise deeply, break bones, might even kill.

Freya saw this in the space of breath Arthur drew in, then he bellowed a string of profanity that caused the deputies to pause, look up, retreat half a step.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted then, sounding angry with him as well.

The younger agent had been facing away from them when Arthur first spoke, and kept pivoting til he was sure the attack had halted, then lowered his own club and faced them, straightening. Freya found her breath catching again. His blue eyes were bright and stormy, fierce and exultant in his flushed face, his chest heaving with panting breaths. He was a fighter, in that instant, proud and glad of it. And something deep within her responded to his breath-taking masculinity.

It might have been a nervous reaction, an inexperienced deputy scared and unsure, acting without thinking before Arthur had a chance to issue orders. It might have been.

Without warning, the skinny, unshaven deputy at Merlin's back – frozen for a moment with club upraised at Arthur's cursing – brought his weapon down in a curving arc that caught Merlin unaware, across the back and side of his head and neck.

His face went blank, wiped emotionless, and he dropped like a felled tree. He didn't make a sound. And he didn't move.

Freya thought her heart had stopped.

"Back!" Arthur roared. He faced five deputies, all armed and he empty-handed, but they shuffled their feet, lowered their clubs, backed away from Merlin's body. "You dare to touch an agent?" His voice shook with rage.

Freya didn't wait for Arthur's permission. Letting the door slam shut, she went around him and knelt on the bare stone floor, eyes only for Merlin. The black deputy's boots shuffled back another step. She felt for the pulse in his neck first, reassuringly steady, though quick. There was blood oozing through his hair, down his neck onto his collar; she didn't want to touch the wound, fearful she would hurt him further. She tried to roll him over – he was so _heavy_! His breath, one moment ago coming hard and fast from the exertion of the fight, was too light and too slow, now, for her liking.

"Drop those, and back up against the wall," Arthur ordered.

The truncheons clattered to the stone-slab floor, the boots retreated to the wall. Someone muttered, "An attempted escape –"

"Don't even suggest that, to me!" Arthur thundered. "It looked like you all could have dragged my agent from the cell and attempted to bludgeon him to death, and he fought back in defense of his life. I want all of your names, and you –" he snapped his fingers.

"Bud, sir," one of them mumbled behind Freya.

She scooted around so she could lift Merlin's head to her lap, trying to arrange his body that he might be more comfortable, knowing how ridiculous that was and not caring.

"Get out and find a doctor for him. Now."

One pair of boots moved past them to the door. Arthur knelt to feel for Merlin's wrist, keeping his eyes on the row of deputies, and the club Merlin had been using slipped from his limp hand to the floor. Arthur released him without comment, and glanced down only for a moment as his fingers brushed aside the bloodied hair.

"Is it bad?" Freya whisperd. Her throat felt tight, but she refused to let tears fall in front of these strangers who had beaten Merlin so unfairly.

"It's that last one I'm worried about," Arthur replied in a low voice.

Merlin's legs moved. And she felt the rest of his body tense and tighten, and life was back in him. She felt such a rush of relief, she almost sobbed. But he disliked emotion shown over him… His face still rested against the top of her knee, his eyes were still closed. His hand moved waveringly up toward the back of his head, but Arthur, still crouched over them, caught it.

"Easy now, easy," he cautioned.

Merlin pushed the hand away, but weakly.

Freya slid her hands under his head, her fingertips brushing his collarbone through his shirt, helping him as he tried to push himself up off the floor.

As his head came up, he swore softly, then lifted his face to look straight into her eyes from only inches away. He fell silent, his eyes dark as midnight, his face pale but giving away no emotion – no anger, no pain, no embarrassment, no relief. He said nothing, just held her gaze several long moments as if Arthur and the four deputies were not there.

He could see her soul, she thought, when he looked at her like that.

The back door opened again, and she used the commotion as an excuse to look away, glance back over her shoulder. The doctor was a large man with a square jaw and a florid complexion, sandy-red hair fading to white.

"Prison doc," he explained shortly, meeting Arthur's sharp glance. "What've we got?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Even before agony began pounding through Merlin's skull – which it did, fierce and merciless and somehow _red_ – he was aware of her scent. Sweet, faint, warm, feminine. He was vaguely aware that he was lying in her lap, and he was content with that.

Then of course, the pain in his head crashed down, through his neck, through his entire body, til his fingers ached and the sudden and overwhelming nausea warned him he might want to push himself away from her, for her own good.

His ears were ringing. He heard someone speaking far away, but couldn't concentrate on the words. There were men present, several, but who they were or why they were there escaped his memory. And he couldn't seem to care.

Her eyes were so dark, deep with worry for him and beautiful, he could look into their depths forever.

But it came to him that he should stand – so he tried. Didn't find it easy, with the floor tilting so unexpectedly. Or was it him tilting?

He should help her up? Why was she on the cold stone floor? Why was he? Didn't matter – he put out his hand to her but stumbled sideways.

Someone crashed into him, held him up.

_Take it slow_, someone said with Arthur's voice. But – it should be snowing, the posse just took Padlow…

"Hurry," he tried to tell them, but his tongue felt thick. If the two of them hurried they could catch them before they hung – but how could he know there would be a hanging before it happened? He was having no success at speaking or seeing or thinking clearly… but why was that important?

Someone leaned his head forward, stabbed him at the base of his skull with thick blunt fingers.

_Merlin, can you hear me?_ Freya said. Why was she here? Where was here?

"I'm sorry – didn't get there sooner," he mumbled. "Stop him – hurting you."

That wasn't right. She was standing now, not crumpled bleeding in a cellar corner. She was wearing widow's black, fully recovered from her injuries.

A face swerved into his range of vision and he blinked. Which one of them was swaying? A stranger, featureless except for the kindness… Merlin wished he would quit speaking, quit _touching_ his head.

Then, for an instant Arthur's blue eyes were sharply clear, and Merlin winced at their expression. The agent's lips moved, though Merlin didn't hear his voice, _Do you understand me?_

"Yes," he answered, slow and deliberate.

_Sit still_. Arthur's hand on his shoulders, pressing him down.

Soft seat, harder bar of a frame under the back of his knees. He noticed vertical bars behind Arthur. Prison cot, then. Prison?

"You should not – have brought – her here," he told the agent.

_Rest_, Arthur said, still not making any sound that Merlin could hear. _But don't sleep. I'll come back later when you can talk._ The agent turned away.

Hearing returned with a head-splitting clang, the tearing screech of a lock that he could _feel_ scraping his skin. He closed his eyes, wishing to rest his throbbing head in her soft, sweet-smelling lap.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What did he say?" Freya said anxiously as they left the reeve's holding cells.

"You can't stay," Arthur told her quietly, holding her hand firmly at his elbow and pulling her along. "They don't allow it, and even if they did, it wouldn't be proper."

"He's in no condition –" she tried.

"All he needs is rest, like the doctor said," Arthur said, leading her unwilling down the street toward Key Park. "You can't help him rest."

"But what if they –" Freya stopped at his sharp, warning look. She waited til they'd gone a few streets from the holding cells, almost skipping to keep up with him. "Do you really believe they caught him trying to escape?"

Arthur's lips twisted wryly. "Not one minute. I believe if he'd wanted to escape, he'd have been gone before they knew it. Not in broad daylight, though."

"What did they arrest him for?" she asked. He didn't answer immediately, so she prompted, "You said the judge was offended and Merlin tried to leave."

"You must have heard him say, don't touch me, at least once since you've known him." Freya smiled to herself involuntarily, and nodded, though Arthur was in too much of a hurry to notice. "He – pushed the judge. Then tossed the reeve onto the floor. It wasn't much at all if you're talking about assault, bruised their pride, mostly. For Merlin it was an extremely restrained response. There's – nothing I can put my finger on, but it's – very suspicious."

"You mean they provoked him so they'd have an excuse to arrest him?" she said. She was trotting to keep up, now. "And maybe they provoked him to fight just now?"

"It certainly seemed so," he murmured. "But why?"

"Could you talk to the judge?" she asked. "Maybe if Merlin agreed to offer an apology –"

"No," Arthur responded, almost absently.

She wished he'd slow down; she was beginning to feel a stitch in her side, and they were passing the twin-domed Daved Cathedral. It seemed a sacrilege, somehow, to race past it without half-noticing.

"If there is something going on, the judge is involved, or at least aware," Arthur explained. "If there's not, or he's not a part of it, then he reacted out of injured pride, and will be just as unlikely to rescind the arrest."

"What about a trial?" she asked.

Again Arthur shook his head. "Since the judge witnessed the offense and ordered the arrest, he can hold Merlin indefinitely."

"But do you think it's safe to leave Merlin alone in the holding?" she persisted. "If it was arranged for him to be arrested, maybe it was arranged for him to attempt escape… do you think someone wants to – kill him?" He shook his head once, not to deny the possibility, but to convey his own uncertainty.

"I don't have the authority to order his release," he said. "I've written to Agency headquarters, to obtain a full pardon from Uther, but that'll be a while in coming. I think, with my orders that he remains alone in the cell, and with the doctor checking on him every couple of hours, he'll be all right until tonight."

"And tonight?" she said, catching her breath as he paused to pay their toll before entering the Key Park district.

Arthur waited until they were out of earshot of the collectors. "Won't be the first time I broke someone out of a jail cell. Probably won't be the last, either. I'll take him to Morgana; I don't think anyone knows he's staying there instead of with me. Then they won't find him at Randall and Emma's."

"It can't have looked very good for you, to have Merlin arrested," Freya ventured. "Don't you think you're the first person they'll think of if he turns up missing from the holding cells?"

"I'll go late, after we're all in bed," he said, holding open the gate of Number Five for her for the second time that day. "You and your cousins can testify I retired at the same time as the family, and you never heard me stir."

Freya opened her mouth to ask to go with him, as she had earlier, then thought better of it. Surely he'd say no, anyway. And wouldn't he be right? She'd be in the way, more likely than not, might even inadvertently cause discovery or capture.

"Maybe you should have a coach waiting," she offered, pausing as he opened the front door for her. He gave her a quizzical look that had her face warming, but she went on anyway, "In case he finds it – difficult to get away on foot." His eyes narrowed on her face, and the hot feeling spread down her collar.

Then he nodded. "Better if you mention none of this to your cousins," he advised.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Hours later, when they brought Merlin's dinner on a tray, he felt a little better.

A little clearer, mentally, though his head still pounded and at times his eyes didn't focus immediately. He sat very still on the end of the cot at the back of the cell, watching the deputies' every move as warily as they watched him. They'd only brought him down, he remembered – they were sure to remember also – when Arthur's arrival had distracted him. He was in no condition to fight again – vertigo whirled through him at the slightest attempt to move even now – but they didn't know that, and his safety might depend on them believing him capable of picking up where he'd left off.

And a little worse, as bruising began to spread across the rest of him. No broken bones, though, that was something.

Did they want him dead? Was the beating meant only as a warning? Evidently this had been planned before this morning, so did not come as a result of his tirade before the council. What had he done that had someone so spooked?  
>Or – what had he seen? It hurt to try to puzzle through it.<p>

Earlier he had decided to remain in the holding cells because of the position he'd put Arthur in if he escaped. But he wasn't willing to risk his life in support of Arthur's authority. He'd have to sort Merlin's escape out with the judge, and Merlin could still go on Arthur's side errands in secret.

But later. He could leave tonight or tomorrow night, but it wouldn't do for him to go stumbling and staggering about the streets, maybe even get picked up by a watchman. A schoolgirl could arrest him, the way he felt now. And he couldn't hire a coach to drive him to Morgana's – she'd likely turn him right back over to the reeve and his deputies for such stupidity.

No other criminals had been brought in since Merlin. If there were deputies on duty, they stayed in the front hall or the reeve's office; he had the cell area to himself.

His eyes closed against the nauseating sight of the food on the tray, and he leaned his head sideways against the brick wall, cushioned slightly by the bandage the prison doc had wrapped around his head.

If he slept, he wasn't aware of it, nor did it help his condition.

He was brought back to alertness, in any case, by the steely scratch of a key or lock-pick in the back door. Disoriented, he fully expected that the middle-aged man with the deeply grooved face was breaking back in. So when Arthur's golden hair and blue eyes and crooked grin appeared around the half-opened back door, Merlin stared at him blankly. Dreaming of course. Dreaming.

The dream slipped into the room and knelt to work on the lock of Merlin's cell. He watched, having nothing else to do, but didn't move.

"How's the head?" Arthur whispered as he worked.

"Been better," Merlin answered slowly.

"How's the rest of you?"

"Been worse."

Arthur chuckled, and the lock squeaked open. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the door even as he beckoned to Merlin, hissing, "Let's go!"

Merlin pushed himself to his feet. His head still thundered agonizingly with every heartbeat, muscles and bones protested with a sore throbbing, but he managed to gain the door of the cell without passing out or throwing up. He leaned momentarily against the bars to rest, but Arthur was in a hurry.

He grabbed a handful of Merlin's shirt at the shoulder, and pulled him along, keeping him more or less upright against his tendency to lean too far one way or the other.

His eyes chose that moment to blur again into darkness, but he followed Arthur without question, and soon found himself shoved through the door of a covered carriage. Arthur must have hired a driver, for he climbed in behind Merlin, and the carriage started off.

"You feel up to talking?" Arthur said.

The rustling the agent made settling on the seat seemed deafening to Merlin. He himself didn't try to get comfortable, just rested on his left hip and let his cheek fall against the back of the padded seat.

"Don't expect… much coherency," he warned. His lips felt numb. He found he could think the words, but forming them was difficult.

"What happened after the reeve brought you to the holding cells?" One thing came to mind with urgent clarity, and Merlin fumbled in his vest pocket, turning the folded bit of paper over to Arthur. "What's this?" Arthur asked.

It was dark then – that wasn't just his eyes. He closed them again anyway, and spoke haltingly. "The cells were empty, except for… one lockpick. We were out again… in five minutes. He wanted to go… out the back. I… found that… reeve's office."

A minute or an hour later, Arthur said, "Did it seem planned to you?"

"Didn't try to leave," Merlin said. It felt like he was mumbling, so he made an effort to speak more clearly. "Waited for 'em in the reeve's office. They said nothing, just… started in with th' bully-clubs. They're… the worst deputies… I ever see… or they meant to… work me over… with an excuse."

"Or kill you," Arthur mused. "I've been trying to decide all day if any of the councilmen could be responsible, but their shock this morning at the Palais seemed genuine. I don't know… it seems too elaborate and too risky a move just to undermine my – our – authority."

"Volatile and easily provoked," Merlin enunciated with care.

"That sounds like you," Arthur said, his voice wryly amused in the darkness of the coach.

"You told… the reeve and the judge… yesterday," Merlin said. His body was trying to fall asleep; his thoughts seemed clear, but increasingly harder to convey. "The threat of… death-contracts. They were ready today. They knew I was… your witness to… Mordred. Jordan."

"But their names were also presented to the revengers, along with the eight council members," Arthur reminded him.

"Easy enough to… guard against… what you know is coming," Merlin said. "Or a… smoke screen."

"And your average lone assassin will pursue lower-risk subjects like the eight, before going after a target like the judge or the reeve," Arthur added. "You do realize we're accusing them of conspiracy to murder?"

"Jordan's still at Morgana's," Merlin said. He had to keep talking so he could ignore the motion and jostling of the carriage. Though why would he care if Arthur had to pay extra to have the interior cleaned? "Arrest him… question him."

"Not unless I want to openly confront Judge Alined," Arthur murmured. "At this point, it's your word against theirs, and because of today, we're even less likely to be believed. I can't help but assume that was the reason for the arrest and the beating. Which means until we get to the bottom of this, we don't know who to trust."

"That why you came yourself, tonight? Could've had some of… Morgana's apprentices."

Arthur grunted. "You trust her? She could easily have passed information on to Jordan for Mordred. Jordan's paying her, isn't he?"

"She won't do… assassinations," Merlin protested. "Mordred would know… things about me... just from being there. Wasn't her… arranged this morning."

"Will she be willing to help you – us?" Arthur said. "If we're right about this, someone wants you dead because you can identify Mordred and Jordan, which might lead back to them. At the very least they want you in a condition where it'll be easy to throw doubt on your memory, or discount your testimony. Will it be safe for you to stay at the chalet, if Jordan and Mordred know that's where you've been living?"

"Where else can we go?" Merlin mumbled. "No choice… go to Morgana's."

**A/N: Some long-anticipated action… and I hope the intrigue is tasty, because it's a diet we're going to be on for a while! **


	12. Refuge

**Chapter 12: Refuge**

Freya slept little that night. Though her thoughts disturbed her rest, they were disjointed and often trailed into worrying.

Arthur's place in the guest room was on the second floor and on the other side of the house, but the little window in her alcove was over the front door, two stories down. Unless Arthur chose to leave through the kitchen/pantry area past Betsey and the cook, he would use the door directly beneath her.

She didn't remember falling asleep, but she never heard him leave.

Or return, either. She woke early, just before dawn, and hurried to dress without waking Vivian. Breakfast wouldn't be served for half an hour, at the earliest, but she couldn't wait to find out from Arthur what had happened during the night. Had he even gone, or had he changed his mind for some reason? Was Merlin safely away from the holding cells?

"Good morning, Freya," Randall said, pausing at the front door, hat in hand.

"You're off early," she said, slowing her feet on the stairway as she descended.

"Yes, there's – been a bit of an upset last night," Randall responded, opening the door as he spoke. "They brought the news an hour ago, roused Agent Arthur right out of bed. I'll leave him to tell about it, though," he added, as Arthur came into view from the sitting room, and he took that opportunity to shut the door behind him.  
>Arthur looked unharmed – rested, even – as he leaned against the wide arched doorway. His eyes carried the same warning he had voiced the previous day, but he said politely enough, "Good morning, Miss Freya."<p>

"Freya – in here, cousin," came Emma's voice from the dining room beyond.

She hurried down, but paused by Arthur to ask," How was your night, Agent?"

"Don't mind the pleasantries this morning," Emma said from her seat at the table. Her hands fluttered – over her hair, her lap, straightening the tableware at her setting. What had so flustered her? "You won't be_lieve_ what has happened. Come here, dear. You should sit."

Freya obeyed quickly. They'd found Arthur in bed, but what did that mean? Had he even tried to free Merlin from the reeve's holding – and what had happened, then?

"The judge – Judge Alined – was killed last night. Murdered – at home in his bed. Can you imagine? How awful…"

Freya, who hadn't reached the seat yet, sat down with a bump at this outburst, her eyes seeking Arthur. She stammered, "How – Who –"

"Person or persons unknown," he informed her, voice quiet and grave. "The reeve and his deputies are investigating. That is all we know right now."

"That makes you –" Freya stopped. That made Arthur the highest authority in Turad.

He inclined his head in a slight bow, answering her question without speaking. Yes, he was aware of that consequence of the judge's death.

"I'm so excited, I declare I couldn't eat a bite," Emma commented as the cook came in with a large round tray of covered dishes.

Freya was sorry for the judge of course, and his family – murder was always terrible – but her thoughts and fears were focused on Merlin. She began to eat, though her stomach felt tied into too many knots for her to be hungry. As calmly as she could, she asked, "Does this change your plans for the day, Agent Arthur?"

"Not by much," he answered, seating himself as his usual chair and eating as well, swiftly and efficiently, but politely.

Emma sat staring to the side, at or through the window at the front of the house, drumming her fingers on the tablecloth. Likely she was more concerned with the effects this murder would have on Randall's business, or maybe she was worrying about their own safety.

"Do you mind if I go with you, today?" Freya asked Arthur softly, hoping her question wouldn't jar Emma back to alertness to forbid the outing. "It might be nice to get out, see more of the city…"

One of Arthur's eyebrows quirked, but he answered just as softly, "Be at the sycamore in a quarter of an hour."

He finished his meal just moments later, thanked Emma as he always did, and excused himself for the rest of the day. The family had gotten used to his coming and going at odd hours, and he knew when he needed to be there if he wanted to take his meals with them, but he usually tried to let them know whether to expect him.

Freya left half her breakfast on her plate, murmured to Emma that she was stepping out for a little air, and ran up to the third floor for her hat and wrist-purse. She snatched Merlin's jacket from its place under the skirt of her bed, and was letting herself out when Vivian stirred.

"Freya?" her young cousin mumbled.

"I'm going out for a walk," she whispered back, and shut the door on anything further the other girl might say. Once started, Vivian would question her plans exhaustively – she'd never let Freya go out with the agent on the day after a murder without begging Emma to come along. Which would put a stop to Freya's outing, too.

She peeked over the railing to be sure Emma wasn't in sight before running back downstairs and letting herself out the front door. Breathless, she pinned her hat in place by feel as she met Arthur at the great shady sycamore; he set a pace that kept her from catching her breath again. Maybe he didn't want her chattering away with no thought to who could overhear on the busy streets. She was never one to chatter, though, so maybe he was only preoccupied and in a hurry because of his own thoughts and responsibilities.

"Last night?" she finally managed.

"He's fine," Arthur said shortly. "It'll take some time before he's his own charming self again…"

Freya smiled through her panting, relieved. It couldn't be too bad, after all, if Arthur could joke about it. She said, "And the judge?"

He gave her a lightning-quick glance. "It wasn't us," he said. "But the deputy who came this morning was asking questions about Merlin right along with telling me about Alined. They aren't sure when he escaped the holding cells, but the judge was killed only a couple of hours before dawn. The deputy implied – they think Merlin is guilty." He paused while they waited for a slower-moving canvas-covered wagon to clear their path. "The coincidence is hard to ignore – and I can't try to clear Merlin of the murder without implicating myself, and confessing at least to the jail-break. In the big picture of our task here, I might as well return to Camelot and surrender my writ right now, as do that."

"Do they really think Merlin is guilty," she said sharply, feeling anger and trying to subdue it, "or is that just a convenient explanation?"

"Merlin's hard to read," he answered obliquely, and shot her a faint grin, "as you know. You and I could tell how badly he was injured yesterday, but if you didn't know him –" He shrugged, turning her up a street that rose steeply up the north hill of Turad. "You might believe him capable of murder, even after all that. You might believe he'd kill in retaliation for his arrest, and the beating. Or you might just claim you believed it. Reeve Agravaine wasn't at the holding at all yesterday, after locking Merlin in, so he takes his deputies' word for everything that happened…"

"Convenient," Freya repeated, aware of the bitterness in her tone. She shouldn't jump to conclusions. She never met Reeve Agravaine; it wasn't right for her to think uncharitable thoughts, or judge him by what she'd known of Whatley.

"Merlin ever tell you about Morgana?" Arthur asked as they ascended the street, his long legs traveling easily where her skirts hindered her.

Freya kept her eyes down, panting a little at the steep, swift climb. "Not much," she admitted. "She's a revenger, and he used to work for her."

"She saved his life," Arthur said unexpectedly. "He came here after he – left me. She told me she found him half-naked and bleeding to death in a ditch one rainy night, robbed of his horse, his clothes, everything." The agent stopped, and she stared up with him at the closest thing to a palace she'd seen in this city. He rubbed his right side unconsciously and mused, "Poetic justice, maybe."

Freya sighed as her breathing slowed to a more normal rate. It seemed sometimes that Merlin was nearly always half-naked and bleeding to death.

"This is her chalet." Arthur glanced down at her, one eyebrow higher than the other. "I don't have to remind you not to say anything you shouldn't to anyone here? It's possible Merlin was targeted because of what he's seen or heard here. He's not supposed to be here at all – and isn't, as far as you know, understand? You came to visit Morgana, this morning. In fact, it might be a good idea if you had a different story altogether to tell – like a runaway brother you want to persuade away from Morgana's employ. These folks are good at keeping secrets, but until we know who's keeping what secret from whom…"

Evidently the revenge business was profitable.

Freya saw every indication around her of understated financial stability and comfort, even a hint of real wealth, in the large receiving-room where the silent, muscular butler made them wait. She was nervous as she sat and waited, but hoped it wouldn't show.

_He's very loyal_, she told herself. _He owes this woman his life_. She wanted to make a good impression on Morgana for Merlin's sake, but the things revengers valued and respected were all alien to her.

Then the door opened and a woman came into the room, gliding, proud as a queen and as beautiful. She wore a dress of deep orange-yellow that seemed richer, somehow, than anything she'd seen her cousins wear, and also more provocative. There was a presence about her of control and awareness that awed Freya. Her face was unlined, her hair sleek and black, short as the high back collar of her dress and unbound. One thick wave of it hung over her forehead to her brows, framing a strong, almost seductive face, and her eyes were a brilliant, clever green.

Arthur had remained on his feet, and bent over her hand in greeting, but she took little notice of him, staring at Freya in a rather disconcerting way.

"And this is –" Morgana prompted Arthur graciously, never losing her poise as she gestured to Freya. Her eyes took in Merlin's coat, folded on Freya's lap, and narrowed.

"My name is Freya," she answered, standing herself and coming forward to meet the revenger woman, acutely aware and even embarrassed at her plain dark widow's dress, her flushed and windblown state after their quick walk here.

Morgana took Freya's hand between her own; soft hands, Freya noted, but strong, too. And she smelled of lilies. She said to Arthur, "Is she his…"

Arthur seemed to understand her question, but shrugged as if he couldn't answer.

"Am I whose what?" Freya said, puzzled.

"She doesn't know?" Morgana said, still to Arthur; he smiled, but made no other answer.

"I am here to see my brother?" Freya asked, looking from Arthur back to Morgana.

The older woman smiled, a gleam of white teeth that just missed being predatory. "Brother, is it?" she said to Arthur. "He'll love that."

"She's trying to persuade her brother to quit training as a revenger and return with her to their home and family," Arthur explained. "She's concerned about the training injuries he's recovering from."

"Ah. Good as any, I guess." Morgana studied Freya a moment longer; she felt her color rising, and dropped her eyes. "Well, to each his own." She linked her arm through Freya's, led her to the door, then paused. "Agent Arthur, it would be best if you remained here. Reeve Agravaine has already paid us a visit this morning; we have a long-standing arrangement that is mutually beneficial, which allowed me to deny his request to search the chalet for Agent Merlin, but your presence here will cause further suspicion, and who knows what that will lead to?"

Arthur didn't follow, then, as Morgana drew Freya beside her, down a long hallway. Freya could hear the bustle and clang of a good-sized kitchen to her left. Remembering her promise to Arthur, Freya didn't try to make conversation with the older woman. Morgana, however, seemed to have no such qualms.

"He'll be all right in a few days, maybe a week or two," she explained to Freya as they walked. "Bad headaches that should clear up gradually, maybe more irritable than usual." She gave Freya a glance that carried a fondness for the man she spoke of, and laughed suddenly, tipping her head back. "Though, with your – brother – who could tell?"

They came to a winding stairway at the end of the hall, and Morgana lifted her skirt to lead Freya upward.

"You must've heard about Judge Alined?" Morgana said quietly over her shoulder. The stairway was more closed-in than the hallway, and her voice didn't carry further than a few feet. Freya made a noncommittal noise, but Morgana glanced back and seemed to understand. "Someone knew he was staying here… I don't like it. If Agravaine believes he came back here, he'll have someone watching the chalet. It seems only a matter of time before he's caught."

"Do you think he did it?" Freya said softly. They passed the open hallway of the second floor and continued to climb.

"I think he could've," Morgana answered in a detached way that shocked Freya. "But, no. If it had been Merlin, they'd have found the judge sprawled on the floor, his own weapon in his hand, not defenseless in his bed. And the way Agent Arthur brought him in last night… I think Agent Arthur could've, and might've, but he's too smart to have done it _after_ he freed Merlin, leaving him wide open to suspicion."

"May I ask you a question?" Freya said, her heart thumping from the cavalier way Morgana discussed murder, as much from the climb. They reached the hallway to the third floor, quiet and showing only four or five closed doors on each side.

"He's in the first room," Morgana pointed, remaining on the landing. "Arthur and I will be in the receiving-room downstairs. Merlin shouldn't leave his room – there are those here who should not see him, now. What did you want to ask?"

"Arthur said you found Merlin and saved his life," Freya started hesitantly. She didn't want to offend this woman, but – "That was quite soon after his family was killed, wasn't it?"

Morgana's bright eyes sharpened, and her tone matched. "He's told you about that, has he?"

"Yes." Bit by bit, piece by piece, at different times. "I wondered, why it was that you – started him to – become a revenger. Someone told me – he was a kind boy, a bit troubled, but… all he's known is violence, since then." She stuttered to a stop as Morgana drew herself up, eyes snapping.

"You blame me for that?" Morgana demanded, an outraged queen, now. "If you had seen him – half-dead even without the knife wound in his back. He was like death walking – his own or others, no one was sure, not even himself. All that emptiness, then all that rage filling him to an explosion. If I hadn't helped him focus, control his energy and determination toward healing, toughening up, training – If I hadn't helped him find the man responsible for those murders, prepared him to face that man and win, he'd have gotten himself killed, somehow, and maybe taken others with him. If he hadn't the courage for suicide, he might've turned to crime, taken out his rage in violence against the innocent instead of the guilty."

Freya began to argue, sure he wouldn't have done to others what had been done to him, then remembered what he'd said of his first fight – the undertaker burying his parents, he'd said.

"You met him in Emmett's Creek, yes?" Morgana said impatiently. "Was it before or after he faced Padlow?"

Freya was shocked into silence to hear that name from this woman's lips – then reflected that she had helped him find who was responsible for the murders in Ealdor. And – she remembered how Merlin had drifted into Percy's Place… the fight… that fierce burning hate.

"It was before," she said softly.

"Well, then." Morgana seemed to think that explanation enough. Freya turned toward the door to Merlin's room, but Morgana halted her with a ringed hand on her arm. "I have a question for you, then, Freya. Since the death of this Padlow, has Merlin seemed different? Directionless? Uncaring, as if –"

"As if all the fire had gone out of him," Freya finished, knowing what she meant. "Yes, at times."

"Well," Morgana began to descend again, "it may be up to you to help him find that again."

"To find what?" Freya called after her.

"A reason to go on living."

What could she do, though?

She tapped at the door Morgana had indicated, heard nothing. It wasn't locked, so she eased it open. He'd never been shy about having her around at times that others would've found embarrassing, but she still wanted to respect his privacy.

Merlin was lying on his stomach on a still-made bed along the left-hand wall, wearing only trousers and a stained bandage around his head. His eyes were closed and his head tipped so the bruising blow would have no pressure on it.

She slipped into the room, stepped slowly to the bed, and sighed over the angry red-purple bruises that showed on his bare skin, remembering the stiff way he'd moved after other fights he'd been in. Draping his discarded jacket over the writing-chair in the far corner of the room under the window, she stood looking at him for another moment.

He was so still.

It made her nervous to see him so, to think about how fragile life really was, even his. He'd endured such punishment many times before; it seemed like he always would recover, always be there. But life was so uncertain. She knew that folks sometimes died even days after a head injury, fell asleep never to wake, or lived on with damage that never healed.

Careful not to wake him – and she wouldn't stay long, anyway, having seen his condition now for herself – she sank to her knees on the floor next to the bed. Just to watch the rise and fall of his breathing, just to hear the slight puff of air on the bedding. Just for a moment.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin could smell her again, sweet and faint. His head pillowed on her lap, her gentle hands soothing the bone-throbbing ache… it was a good dream.

With growing awareness came memory, creeping back hesitantly. He had stood away from the comfort and softness of her, had moved back into the cell in the reeve's holding. Arthur had returned and taken him – where?

He remembered losing his balance, deciding that the carpet on the floor of Morgana's front hall, the carpet suddenly just under his hands, was a fine place to rest for a while. As he stretched out and laid his head down carefully, he remembered Morgana's voice exclaiming disgustedly, "Is he _drunk_?"

Merlin opened his eyes reluctantly, and the first thing he focused on was a fall of wavy dark hair, a lock or two of which had drifted onto the blanket inches from his face. The rest seemed to be pulled over her shoulder, as she sat on the floor next to his bed and rested her head on the mattress.

The sight relaxed him as nothing else could have. And it seemed the pain was less.

Freya looked up then, the brown of her eyes deep and clear, close and startled to see him awake, he thought. She moved back, but he shifted his hand enough to cover one of hers, and she stopped as if he'd commanded it.

"Your cousins let you come here?" he said, his voice sounding hoarse and gravelly.

A slight smile curved her lips. "They don't exactly know I'm here," she said.

"Why did you come?"

"I was worried about you." She looked back up, a faint pink creeping into her cheeks, but she held his gaze. "Arthur told me what happened, at the meeting with the council. And after what they did to you at the holding cells –" She reached to touch the bandage wound around his head. "Would you like me to change this for you?"

"Just take it off. The bleeding will have stopped by now." Her touch was gentle, as he expected; he smelled that faint sweet scent on the inside of her wrist. _Far cry from Emmett's Creek, indeed. For her_. "Arthur should have told you we left the cells. No need for you to come here today."

"Does your head hurt much?" she asked, loosening the bandage to pull it out from where his head resting on it trapped it against the blanket. She was avoiding his eyes, but she never could hide anything. Her face was too open… at least, most of the time.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Last night," she said, her eyes on the bandage in her hands, her fingers winding it tightly around the blood-stained section, "Judge Alined was murdered."

Judge Alined, murdered. Last night.

His first thought, as he rolled over, with difficulty and with pain, was that they would believe him about the death-contracts, now. His second thought was that Arthur's writ placed him higher than the reeve and the council; on his word Merlin could be released from the charge of assault. But what did this do to their theory that the reeve and the judge had plotted together? They expected Mordred to go after the council members first, before the reeve or judge, if they were involved somehow.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat with his head bowed. Felt like a herd of wild horses stampeding through the back of his skull. Not as bad as yesterday, though.

Could Jordan's collaborators have bribed the reeve only? And the judge reacted entirely on his own, as a scared, pompous fool? That was hard to believe of someone who'd attained that high position. Surely he'd had enough death threats of his own from prisoners he'd sentenced, to take such things in stride.

Maybe Agravaine had betrayed him?

"Where's Arthur?" he said, rubbing his forehead in a vain effort to dispel the pain.

"Downstairs, with Morgana." She was still kneeling beside him. "You need to stay here, in this room, rest for a few days." She may have put a hand on his knee, only to swiftly remove it, but since his eyes were closed, he couldn't be sure.

"You know I can't do that," he told her. _You know I _won't_ do that_.

"Merlin." Her voice was hesitant, wary – she was going to tell him something he wasn't going to like. He dropped his hands to look at her. "They came to Randall and Emma's, of course to tell Arthur about the judge – but they came here, too. Because Judge Alined was killed… _after_ you left the holding cells."

The herd of wild horses thundered past again. He stared at her for a moment, then asked, just to be sure he understood her, "They think _I_ did it? Killed the judge?"

"Yes."

"Or they say they think I did it," he muttered darkly to himself, and swore emphatically if internally.

As far as he knew, no councilman was aware of his connection to Morgana – it was not something he expected Arthur would mention. But was Jordan or Mordred aware of his status as an agent? It wouldn't have been difficult to find out, he hadn't tried to keep it a secret the three or four weeks he'd been here. It would have been obvious that he was neither an apprentice revenger nor a client, and the apprentices were trained to be curious, to pick up information like a dog under the supper-table – anything and everything.

And, if Reeve Agravaine was involved with Jordan – more than just aware of the man and his intentions, more than just taking advantage of the situation – then it was obvious that information would have been exchanged. Volatile, and easily provoked.

In any case, it seemed someone found it convenient that he be blamed – after the fact, no one else could have known that Arthur would sanction a jail-break when he had - and probably punished also, if they caught him, for the murder. It wasn't just a matter of getting the judge out of the way without getting caught, either – hanging the crime on one of the two agents discredited and undermined them both, just as his arrest and escape from the cells did.

Their adversary was crafty, clever, and opportunistic.

And Jordan's passionate appeal that the guilty be punished and Turad returned to peace was smelling more like something that came out of the south end of a northbound –

"We need to get our hands on Jordan," he decided, standing to reach for his old clothes on the bedside stand.

It was a mistake. Vertigo, dizziness, whatever it was, his cell blurred and whirled – he was probably tipping over but he couldn't tell. He heard her gasp his name and put out his hands to catch himself on whatever he could, to clear her out of the way if he fell.

Hard, solid, cold. Unmoving.

His vision cleared, the herd galloping to the back of his head and slowing to a brisk walk; straight ahead of him, the stone-block wall of the cell under his hands. And – the top of her head. He looked down, surprised that his legs had held him up.

She was trapped against the wall, between his outstretched hands, her own fingers spread out over his lower ribs as if trying to hold him up or push him away. Except she wasn't pushing, she was just looking at her hands. Or him, maybe, he couldn't tell. The bruising? It wasn't bad, to his eyes, but to hers might be horrific – or maybe it reminded her of -

Merlin shivered involuntarily at the feel of her touching his skin, and thought, _if she moves her fingers at all…_

She raised her head to meet his gaze.

He found himself leaning in to the depth and feeling in her dark eyes, but caught himself – she seemed to be having as much trouble breathing as he was. No wonder, though, it was quite a small room, and he was crowding her.

Freya wet her lips nervously, and he couldn't help looking at her mouth. Was she trembling? For sure he had frightened her.

"Excuse me," he said in a quiet voice as he backed away, "I'm sorry."

She stood frozen, her hands still out in front of her, her face blank with shock. Did she realize that he had been reeling dizzily, not trying to attack her?

In an effort to make her smile, and remind her that she was safe with him, he recited, with as much of a smile as he could manage – which was only lopsided, he feared – "Stomach, instep, neck –"

Freya colored swiftly, turned, and fled his room.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

She didn't remember leaving Merlin's room, but found herself sitting on the stairs Morgana had led her up, halfway between the third and second floors.

What was wrong with her? That wasn't the first time she'd touched him, been that close to him. It wasn't even the first time he'd passed out and knocked her to the floor in the process – and they hadn't even gone down this time.

But she couldn't stop thinking about how warm and smooth his skin felt, how hard the muscles under her fingers, the small movement every breath made. She was nearly certain if he hadn't stepped back when he did, her hands would have slid around of their own accord to his back, drawing him to her in another embrace. She was also nearly certain how wrong that would have been.

Behind her, up the stairs, she heard a door open. Was anyone living on the third floor except Merlin? She had time to stand and turn, and he came slowly down to her, hand on the wall for balance, lowered himself to sit just above her.

He was wearing his old worn clothes, the faded blue work-shirt and the fraying trousers she was used to seeing him in, but he was still barefoot. She was reminded strongly of meeting him on the staircase in Percy's Place, coming downstairs before he was fully recovered from Gaius' sleeping draught.

And now he was looking in her eyes and smiling – pale and with a shadow of pain darkening the blue of his gaze – without hate, without rage. And yet not quite so empty as when she'd first seen him again in Camelot.

"What is it?" he said.

"You should not have left your room," Freya said, instead of answering.

"I'll be fine," he said, rubbing the scar only just covered by the fringe of black hair on his forehead. "I'm sorry about –"

"Arthur and Morgana want you to stay out of sight," she interrupted, embarrassed to have him apologize for what was really her reaction. "Whether the reeve really believes you killed the judge, if they arrested you again – well, Arthur brought you here because we didn't think you'd be safe at the holding cells."

"Arthur and Morgana," he said softly, slowly. "They both have their own concerns, their own goals – some they share, and some they don't." He dropped his hand and studied her the way he used to, as if trying to figure her out, trying to decide something about her, with a hint of that piercingly fierce gaze. "If Arthur believed troops were needed here – and that troops would be sent immediately, unquestioned, at the death of an agent – he'd let me die. Regrettable, but necessary."

She wanted to protest, but there was a mesmerizing quality to the intensity of his eyes; he believed it, and she remained silent.

"And Morgana? She has a business here, a life. She can only support a former associate, or an agent, so far, against the men who are in power. Loyalty to one only goes so far when your life, livelihood, and that of a dozen others are in the balance. Not that I hold this against either of them; it's part of what makes them good at their jobs. But I'd be a fool to trust them with my life blindly. If the reeve presses, Morgana will have to hand me over. Arthur freed me under cover of darkness and in secrecy, but won't and can't guarantee anything if I'm arrested again."

He paused, and his eyes sharpened on her. Again she felt as though he were weighing her soul in that single long glance.

"You, though," he added softly, and nodded to some inner decision. "Yes, I think I would trust my life in your hands."

Why did that simple admission make her feel strong and scared at the same time? _And I in yours_, she wanted to say. But he was going on.

"I don't know how much Arthur has told you," he said, speaking more quickly. "If I want to stay in Turad, and continue working as an agent, I have no choice but to do as Arthur, and Morgana, wish." She could tell from his expression how much he disliked finding himself in that position. "Three days ago I overheard a conversation between a man named Jordan and one of the apprentices, a man named Mordred." He described them to her swiftly, and explained about the proposed contracts.

It was all so strange to her. She knew it was legal, to require someone to pay in kind for the crimes they committed, but things like guilt and proof seemed secondary to power and pay, consequence a more important consideration than justice. It didn't seem fair, somehow, that lives could depend on one man's honesty – or dishonesty.

Then something caught her attention, and she stopped him, sitting down just below him on the stairs.

"You said, ten men were in these contracts," she said. "The reeve, the judge, eight councilmen." He nodded. "But you didn't hear what was said between Mordred and Jordan. How do you know there weren't further contracts on you and Arthur as agents? If it's not really about re-establishing peace…"

"Morgana introduced me to Jordan as an associate," he said. "He didn't speak to Mordred until later. Even if we assume Mordred knows of my writ, Jordan didn't – at least until that night. There would have been no point to Jordan withholding further contracts from Morgana, if he wanted two agents dead, also."

"Unless he figured all along that she wouldn't take the contracts?" Freya said hesitantly, watching him for his reaction, not sure if he would laugh at her. "If he came here looking for someone like Mordred." Merlin didn't answer; his brows were drawn, his fingers rubbing his forehead across to his temple. "I mean to say, if I wanted to find an assassin, I wouldn't have the slightest idea where to find one. But everyone knows about Morgana, and her business."

"Hm," he said. "We don't know who's behind Jordan and whether they might have those sorts of contacts, or not, or just want to hire someone completely unconnected, to reduce the risk of discovery. But you have a good point – Jordan might have held back about contracts on agents til he was sure he'd found the sort of man he was looking for. I'll have to mention that to Arthur, warn him to watch his back, too. Is there – anything else, that struck you, at all?" His tone indicated that he had something specific in mind, but whether he was testing her or his own theory, she didn't know.

"Arthur said your arrest seemed contrived," she said. "But he didn't say why? I mean, why someone would have arranged something like that, and what could be the gain?"

"Assume the reeve or the judge, or both, were aware of the arrangements," he said. "Ask what they gain from the deaths of even one councilman, what they gain from discrediting Uther's agents."

"But the judge himself was murdered," she objected.

He nodded. The fingers of both hands were now massaging his temples. "That would seem to indicate his innocence of involvement," he said, "unless he was betrayed."

"How sure are you of the reeve?"

Without looking up, he told her of the letters he'd found in the reeve's office, the scrap of paper on the floor, and what was written on it.

" 'Volatile and easily provoked,' " she repeated. " 'Take care in arresting.' "

"Arthur figures that refers to me," he said dryly.

She looked at him, at the twisted self-deprecating smile. The way his eyes were clear and steady, the way his fingers, clasped loosely over his knees, were still and relaxed. The way he sat comfortably next to her, meeting her eyes, not pacing, not scowling. Not demanding that she leave him alone, stay away from him.

"Arthur told me you pushed the judge, and threw the reeve down," she said. "He said it was a restrained response, for you." Merlin nodded to acknowledge, not agree. "Did you know Mordred at all, before you came to Emmett's Creek?"

He shook his head, then paused. "When I first met Mordred, he said something indicating that Gwaine or Morgana had been speaking of me to the apprentices."

" 'Volatile and easily provoked,' " she said, "if you'll forgive me, sounds more like you before – last year. Maybe Mordred wrote that note, or at least gave information on you?"

"Makes sense if the reeve was in on the death-contracts," Merlin mused. "And – tell me if this sounds like too much of a stretch – those letters he was writing, and receiving, seem a lot like campaigning for a place on the council – or even the judge's seat. If one or more of them was killed, he'd have a good chance at being elected. A step up, for him. And if he was the one to catch the assassin – that explains Jordan as the middle-man. But is that enough to kill, especially for a man sworn to protect?"

"And the judge?"

"I find it easy to believe he benefited from discord in the council," Merlin said. "It strengthened his position as chairman, playing factions. I can prove that he benefited from the chaos the extra tolls caused." He was gazing across at the blank wall of the stairway; she had the impression of sharp intelligence narrowing inexorably to a focus, a solution. "Whether he was aware of the intended assassinations and was betrayed, or whether the reeve approached him for help with the scene in the Inner Chamber to weaken our authority as agents, we'll probably never know."

Here was one, she thought suddenly, that she trusted to be in a position of control and authority.

"Thank you," he said suddenly. "Talking to you has – helped." He pulled himself carefully to his feet, one hand again steadying himself.

"Anytime," she told him, feeling more cheerful herself. "In any way."

He stepped down one step, then stopped, and turned his penetrating gaze on her. "Do you mean that?" he said in a low tone, intently.

"Is there something you want me to do?" she said, standing also, and thinking it must be hard to have to sit still, in a small room, when accusations of murder loomed.

"Do you know the Daved Cathedral?"

"I've been once," she answered. "I can probably go again."

They were much the same height, with her a step higher, their eyes level with each other's. But he was far away from Morgana's stairway.

"There is a man who sits at the base of the statue in the northeast portico," he said. "His name is Taliesin. Describe to him Jordan, and Mordred. Tell him there is a third also – my height, not fat, barrel-chested, gray hair combed straight back, deep lines at the corners of his eyes, nose, and mouth. A lockpick, and his knees creak. Try to do anything he asks; you can trust him, but don't tell him why I want to find these men. Find them, or anything about them – Jordan is here, but that might not be his real name, even. Do you think this is something you can do? Are you willing?"

She smiled at him in affirmation, but her heart beat a little faster. There was excitement, anticipation, but she so wanted to please him and live up to his expectations of her.

**A/N: Freya and Morgana – now **_**that**_** was interesting to write! And more **_**stuff**_** piled on Merlin… and Freya is being drawn in, as well… **


	13. Blue Rose

**Chapter 13: Blue Rose**

Speaking with Freya helped Merlin keep his patience and his temper, waiting alone in the tiny apprentice cell.

He slept as much as he could as the only way to pass the time without boredom. And pain. He paced, he thought, he wrote – wasting endless sheets and ink and more than one quill to write and re-write reports, crystallizing theories, updating and clarifying his lists of evidence – though the words sometimes swam and his head often pounded through another headache.

Anything to take his thoughts off his confinement, and Freya's agreement to help. He couldn't decide if it was quite clever or incredibly stupid of him to accept her offer.

Late that day, he had fallen asleep in his clothes, face down on his desk, but straightened alert as soon as a hand touched the latch of his door. He turned in the chair, laying his hand on the knife that rested on the desk beside his manuscript. No one had come to this room since his arrest except Freya and one of the kitchen maids with his meals. But the window was too small for escape – if they came for him, he'd have to fight.

He relaxed as Gwaine pushed the door open, glanced in to be sure Merlin was dressed. "She wants to see you," he said only.

Merlin stood and followed him down the hall, around the corner to the front wing of the third floor. "Did I thank you for helping to carry me up here?"

Gwaine grinned over his shoulder. "You mumbled something. I figured you were grateful I didn't drop you down the stairs."

Morgana was waiting for them in her private sitting room, reclined on a lounge chair, book in hand. She turned to the next page before she looked up, and Gwaine went to pour himself a cup of wine at a dark-wood sideboard.

"Howling yet, my caged wolf?" Morgana said, an amused smile on her face. "Or have you been tamed?"

"Why am I here?" he said quietly. There was very little chance Jordan would come to the third floor without invitation, so Merlin appreciated the chance to get out, though he wouldn't come to Morgana's chambers again without being asked. But he never enjoyed being baited.

"I thought you'd like to have an update on our investigation," Morgana said. "Agent Arthur sent word by messenger that he was being followed, and so will not come here unless it becomes absolutely necessary."

"Does he know who is following him?" Merlin demanded. Gwaine set the wine pitcher down on the sideboard and looked at him.

Morgana straightened, set her feet down on the carpet. "He said it was a deputy – two deputies on shifts, evidently. What does it matter?"

Merlin considered not answering the question, then remembered she hadn't yet told him anything about her investigation – and didn't really have to. If she was extending such a courtesy, so should he. "We discussed the possibility that there were twelve names on the list of death-contracts," he said. "Two that were not made known to you with the other ten."

"You and Arthur, do you mean?" Morgana said. She exchanged a glance with Gwaine.

He asked Merlin, "You think Jordan used us to find an assassin?"

Merlin shrugged. "We admitted that possibility as well."

"We?" Morgana drew the one-word question out into a command for him to explain.

"Freya and I."

Her green eyes were sharp on him, her silence making his answer more significant. She was waiting for him to feel embarrassment, to start rationalizing, defending. Revealing. He said nothing.

She tapped a forefinger on her lips, considering. Then she said, "We have found nothing to justify a revenger's punishment on any of the council members. Petitions, yes. The judge, of course, is beyond anyone's ability to punish, and the reeve – has covered his tracks well. Too well for us to risk an inquest into his death, which would absolutely be done on the death of a reeve. Anything less than death would make of him an enemy I cannot afford."

It had begun to seem that Agravaine would have to be dealt with, and they'd only find support from Morgana's organization if odds were in their favor to arrest him, taking him to Camelot to answer charges, and above all, to guarantee sufficient sentence that he could never again hold a position of power in Turad.

"We will, of course, offer Jordan the benefit of a full week's inquiries," Morgana finished, "but we'll tell him that no action will be taken by us."

"Two more days before Jordan leaves here," Gwaine commented. "Possibly three, then it will be safe for you to move about the chalet again. As far as the rest of Turad goes, though, if you are recognized, you will be arrested for Judge Alined's murder."

"I will be careful."

A half-smile flitted across Morgana's face, and she addressed Gwaine, "Did you ever think to hear Merlin of Ealdor saw those words?"

Gwaine grinned at him to take some of the sting from her remark. Morgana sighed theatrically, perhaps at her failure to get a rise out of him; she leaned back, kicking one silk-slippered foot idly.

"You know, I expected sooner or later a girl of fire and beauty would catch your attention and your heart. But she is quiet and plain."

Before he even knew he intended to speak, Merlin opened his mouth and said, "Have you seen her smile?"

One eyebrow arched as Morgana studied him, but he hoped he kept all expression from his face. "She was quite put out with me," she said. "She seemed to think that I had done you a wrong, when I had Gwaine begin your training here."

Freya was very strong; she had been able to forgive the man who abused her so badly so often. For him, though…

"She is very protective of you," Morgana added. "She cares a great deal about you."

"Far cry from Emmett's Creek," he said.

"What?"

"You know who her family in Turad is," Merlin reminded her. "They will see to it that she marries well."

"And you? What do you want?" Morgana leaned forward. "You could see her marry another?"

He wanted to see her happy; he was not a man to bring happiness to anyone, especially a wife. But Morgana was probably asking with his future as a revenger in view – would he stay in Turad if she lived here as the wife of another man, or would he seek to forget her elsewhere? Could he forget her here in Turad, as the reeve of Emmett's Creek? Merlin shrugged.

"You are still chasing death, then?" Morgana said tartly, showing some temper.

Merlin turned and left the room.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya visited the Daved Cathedral the very next day, Vivian at her side for company and for propriety, since a young girl of their class was not allowed to wander the city alone.

But Vivian soon tired of walking about looking at paintings, sculptures, and architecture, and left Freya's side to sit and gossip with a young acquaintance in the back of the main chamber of the cathedral. If she noticed when Freya drifted out to the northeast portico, she didn't follow.

Freya found Taliesin just where Merlin had said he'd be, a bent man with short coarse white hair and beard, a crooked foot, a padded crutch, and a melodious voice. He was seated at the base of a statue in its shade, singing in the echoing portico. She found it easy to come quite close to him in the crowd that had gathered to listen. Then he finished his song, and began to thank folks for the few coins they dropped into the upside-down cap beside his crippled foot.

She stepped close to add another to his rather meager collection, and when he smiled serenely into her face, she said quietly, "Merlin sent me."

Quick as a wink he shot back, "Which side does he wear his scar on, right or left?"

Startled, Freya answered, "Which scar?"

"So he's gathered more than one?" The little man chuckled, slapping his thighs lightly. "The one that almost took his life."

Freya remembered Merlin climbing a tree, shirtless in the rain, the scar she'd noticed just before he turned. "The left side," she said, "just along the bottom rib."

The old man crooked a white eyebrow at her. "You're his lady, then?"

"No." She blushed at the implication of her knowledge, yet hurried on determinedly. "He asked me to ask if you would find out about three men." Taliesin began humming a slow, soulful tune as she described Jordan, Mordred, and the man from the reeve's holding cell, nodding as he absorbed the information.

"Well, Miss," Taliesin said, with a quick glance under his wrinkled brow that surprised her with its unexpected clever spark. "I may or I may not know who they are, or where to find them. Did Merlin say anything about pay?"

Freya looked at him blankly. "No, he – he didn't. But I – I have –" She reached for her wrist-purse again, but he stopped her with one bony hand.

"You have a good heart, Miss," Taliesin said softly, with a wink. "You keep your coin. I'll settle with Merlin some other day. Tell him joy to you both."

She didn't know when she'd see Merlin again, but she smiled at the crooked man anyway and assured him she'd pass on the message, cryptic as it was to her.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The morning was clear and cool – one of the last of such for the season, Merlin was afraid. He could have seen the twin domes of the cathedral well enough to count gold-leaf shingles if not for the thicket of trees that surrounded Morgana's stable on three sides.

He'd taken his breakfast here with the other stable boys – strong coffee, crusty brown bread and soft white goat-cheese – dressed in the same baggy brown trousers, heavy boots, and loose sleeveless tunic that the other attendants wore. He'd covered the scars on his wrists with wide leather bands which were far less memorable than the scars themselves, and the bruises that still showed from the fight in the holding cell weren't out of character for his dress. A floppy-brimmed farmer's hat completed his costume and helped shield face and hair.

Morgana's servants and hired men were nothing if not discreet, used to all sorts of oddities from visitors and apprentices alike. They were glad of Merlin's help for a couple of hours, and no one even blinked when he stepped out first to meet the hired coach that had been sent for.

Jordan was taking leave of Morgana and Gwaine on the doorstep - but dressed as a stable-hand and unshaven for almost a week, Merlin wasn't too worried about being recognized, at least by Jordan.

"Let me get this one?" he suggested quietly to the coach's attendant. "Make it worth your while?" The boy shrugged and disappeared into the stable, letting Merlin toss Jordan's two travel-bags to the luggage-rack atop the coach. The driver raised an eyebrow when Merlin ascended to the attendant's seat beside him, but the same offer kept him silent also.

"Blue Rose district, driver," Jordan said shortly, swinging himself up into the coach.

Merlin slouched and stared nonchalantly at the lowered brim of his floppy broad hat, no different from a thousand serving-men, and the driver started the horses moving down the hill. _Blue Rose district_? he thought. That was adjacent to Hillside, where Morgana lived, south and west toward the river. If Jordan's home was there, why had he stayed at the chalet? There was no toll between the two districts.

Before long, Jordan's voice rang out again from the driver's-side coach window, out of Merlin's sight, as he gave more specific instructions. "Number Fourteen Orange Leaf Road, driver."

The homes on Orange Leaf Road were built with connecting walls, all in a row, with a short weedy alley behind. They were two stories high, but much narrower than the homes on Sycamore Avenue, and if Merlin guessed right, the front door entered directly into a family kitchen, rather than a spacious hall off a comfortable sitting room. Merlin swung down from his perch before the wheels stopped turning, and came around the coach with one of Jordan's bags in each hand as the man stepped down.

Jordan didn't pause to study the building, but strode familiarly up the short walk and put out his hand to open the door without checking the lock first or knocking. It opened, which didn't seem to surprise Jordan in the least; he held it impatiently for Merlin to bring the luggage.

He ducked his head as he passed the man and entered, quick glances taking in much of the lower level. The stairs rose directly in front of the door; Jordan stood in the doorway of the kitchen to Merlin's immediate left – counter-space, a low table covered by an orange cloth, a glimpse of a blackened stove, the back of a woman bending over it – no fuss made over Jordan's entrance, so Merlin guessed her to be hired help, rather than family.  
>Merlin carried Jordan's bags down the hall passage to the right of the stairs, noting two closed doors on his right hand for a water-closet and a laundry-room, and a little broom-closet beneath the stairs, and came out into a sitting room a third the size of Freya's cousins'. Long sofa, with worn blue upholstery, large mustard-yellow armchair, bookshelves and writing-desk. Through an arched doorway he saw a table with six chairs and a wooden corner cabinet for the china, and another door that led, presumably, to the alley behind the home.<p>

He set the bags down, tipping the brim of his floppy hat even further as Jordan impatiently held out two small coins between thumb and forefinger, dropping them into Merlin's palm without touching him.

And as Jordan closed the door behind him, Merlin heard the unmistakable creak of floorboards in the upper level – there was at least one other person in residence, someone Jordan had not called out to, nor had hailed him at his entrance, either.

Merlin leaped back up to the attendant's seat. "If it's not too much trouble, can we round a few corners?" he said to the driver. "And how much do I owe you for having to go back by the chalet?"

"How much did he give you for a tip?" the driver answered, as they rounded the first corner. Merlin opened his fist and the driver snorted as he glanced down. "I know better than to ask your business, considering where you came aboard, and I have to drive through Hillside on my next route, anyway. So if you'd give your tip to my boy for what he lost by not coming on this trip, that would do for us."

They rounded a second corner. Merlin dug into his pocket, came up with two more coins.

"Thanks for your trouble," he said, preparing to dismount the moving coach.

"No trouble," the driver assured him. "Thank you, too, from both of us!"

Merlin landed lightly on the cobblestones of the street, stepped back out of the way of further traffic, and started walking without so much as a nonchalant glance around. Folks wouldn't remember seeing him, dressed as he was, wouldn't think his behavior odd or suspicious unless he acted as though he was worried someone might be watching.

He circled the whole block three times, slowly, stopping occasionally but never in the same place twice, never retracing his route, crossing and re-crossing the street, just another ordinary workman. He didn't see anyone else twice, coming or going, and got a good feel for the lay of the neighborhood, the architecture, the possibilities. The roofs were steep, but the streets were narrow enough that he could lay flat and not be seen.

So, by the aid of an unattended cart in a back alley, and an obliging rain-gutter, he gained the roof of the house opposite Number Fourteen Orange Leaf Road, where he could see both front door and back alley, and in the shadow of the chimney he watched the place the rest of the day. He watched the housekeeper leave for the night, watched Jordan emerge to smoke a pipe in twilight gloom, completely oblivious.

Under cover of the darkness of early evening, Merlin descended and crossed the street to watch through each window for a time from the shadow, even climbing to peer carefully into the upstairs rooms. He then huddled down beside a dustbin across the street to nap lightly the rest of the night.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Freya? Is something wrong?" Emma's voice brought her back to the sitting room, the low couch before the window, the needle halted above her embroidery work. "Are you not feeling well?"

"No, I'm fine," Freya answered, and smiled to prove it. Vivian was watching her also, her fingers paused on the harp strings. "Just daydreaming, I guess."

She was trying to forget the memory of her visit to Merlin at Morgana's chalet, nearly a week ago. She couldn't believe she'd stood there with her hands on him, enjoying the smooth warmth of his skin, with him looking right at her, waiting for her to come back to her senses. And then _he'd_ apologized!

"Maybe she's thinking about Philbert," Vivian suggested to her mother. Freya dropped her eyes to the cloth in her hands as they both looked back at her, smiles starting.

"Such a nice young man," Emma murmured, raising her own needle to draw the embroidery thread tight. Her voice sounded satisfied; Freya sighed. "According to Randall, he has a good head for business, and will soon be independently successful. Of course, it is always good to consider that he comes from a well-bred family as well."

"Not to mention wealthy," Vivian added, running her fingers along the harp strings aimlessly. "Handsome, charming…" She dimpled at Freya, but Freya suspected if Vivian had been a couple of years older, of marriageable age herself, Vivian would have been a jealous competitor.

Philbert was handsome, she had to admit, probably the most so, out of the suitors who'd come calling since her arrival. Almost beautiful, for a man. Quite different from the rough vitality of someone like Merlin.

She couldn't imagine Philbert dirty or sweaty, but he didn't make her feel _safe_ the way Merlin did, didn't inspire her with the confidence that he would be ready for anything at a moment's notice, could react to any situation to protect her. He was handsome, and charming – and had bored her with incessant recitals of business deals. He had asked no questions about herself – which she was glad of, really – but she knew that what he was looking for in a wife was not something she could be content with, anymore.

Freya didn't want to make someone's bed, wash their clothes, fix their meals, and avoid contact as much as possible, as she'd done with Padlow. Emma didn't do laundry or work in the kitchen, but Freya didn't want to manage and organize and preside over a household for someone who wanted her only for that. She wanted to be loved, needed, treasured. She didn't mind working hard at household chores, and knew she could accustom herself to Emma's way of life without much difficulty, busying herself with clothing and music and visiting, but none of that would fill a life or a heart unsatisfied with the husband of the household.

She had reconciled herself to Padlow's atrocious style of husbanding, had found peace and joy with her friends in Emmett's Creek in spite of his treatment of her, but now that she was free of him, she would be very careful what sort of man she pledged her life to in the future. She'd remain unwed before she married someone like Philbert.

Emma and Vivian were discussing their eligible-bachelor visitor – the articles of his clothing, now, immaculate and impeccable. Freya thought irrationally of Merlin turning from the window in his tailored trousers and vest, turning to face her from his fight with five deputies.

"I think I'll go for a little walk outside," Freya said, standing and moving to lay her hoop, fabric, and scissors in her sewing box.

"That's fine, dear, only stay on our street, will you please?" Emma replied, without looking up from a complicated knot. "Randall should be home soon, and Agent Arthur mentioned he'd try to be here tonight, also."

"Of course. I'll only go a short way." It still seemed odd to Freya that her freedom was more constricted here than in Emmett's Creek.

She left her cap and straw hat upstairs in her room, and passed through the front door with a feeling of escaping. No friends to go to; for all its rusticity and heartache, at least Emmett's Creek had Shasta, Gaius, Alice… even Percy would listen and try to understand without thinking the worst of her, though Gwen was gone from town now…

Had it been a mistake to come here?

Freya reached the huge sycamore tree on the corner, and seated herself on the uneven curb in the shade from the setting sun. There was plenty of traffic on the avenue and the cross-street, but no one seemed to pay any attention to Freya. It probably wasn't appropriate for her to be sitting on the curb, in the dust and the gutter, but she was weary from trying to behave as Turad society required of her.

And yet, if she hadn't come… she wouldn't have been there with Merlin as he faced his family's home, and all the memories. Then again, if she'd not asked him to travel with her, he might not have come to Turad at all – and likely wouldn't have fought the deputies in the jail, or faced arrest for murder. She sighed, rubbing at a smudge on her boot. Unless Arthur had persuaded him to the agent's writ, back in Camelot after Merlin's emancipation.

A shout brought her head up to see Arthur approaching Sycamore Avenue, about thirty paces away. He'd seen her, and raised a hand in greeting. She'd not spoken with him alone since their return from Morgana's chalet, though her cousins had discussed the vague rumors circulating the city concerning Agent Merlin, without giving them much credence. It hadn't changed their solicitous attitude toward Arthur, nor had they realized her involvement to question her more closely.

She stood to be able to greet Arthur, and because she was watching him, she witnessed something she'd never expected to see, nor did she think anyone else had noticed.

A man dressed in the rough, drab clothes of a laborer, with a shabby broad-brimmed hat, and bruising visible on his bare arms, bumped Arthur casually as he passed him, and his hand slid into Arthur's side coat-pocket.

Freya called to him, pointing and miming a hand in his pocket, but Arthur kept coming, puzzled over what she was trying to tell him. She searched the foot traffic and caught sight of the pickpocket as he stepped up to the opposite curb – glancing over his shoulder to see if he'd been discovered – and his eyes met hers.

The slow sideways smile that spread across his face set her heart jumping, before he disappeared down an alley.

"What is it?" Arthur asked as he came closer.

"I think you just had your pocket picked," she answered, pointing at his left-hand pocket. _And I think Merlin did it_…

He swore and reached for his pocket, paused, then withdrew his wallet, still tied shut. They both stared at it for a moment, then he turned it over. A small scrap of paper was tucked against the wallet in his grip; he returned the wallet to his pocket as he thumbed the paper unfolded.

"What is it?" it was her turn to ask, as he scanned the palm-sized sheet, and his brows drew darkly together.

"That - idiot!" he growled, crushing the paper in his fist and staring back the way he'd come.

She was right – it _had_ been Merlin to reach into Arthur's pocket without his notice. But that meant he'd left the relative safety of Morgana's chalet. It was something important, then, or else he'd tired of waiting and was risking his freedom in spite of Arthur and Morgana's wishes.

Arthur swore again, slowly, thinking, then swung back around to stalk around the sycamore tree, heading for Number Five, re-reading the scrap. "He thinks since Jordan has left the chalet, it's safe for him to move around Turad," he grumbled sarcastically, half to himself. And swore again, as if he'd forgotten that she hurried along in his wake. "We can catch Mordred and prove he killed Judge Alined, but it won't do any good if Merlin gets himself caught and on trial for murder in Mordred's place."

"What are you going to do?" she said, trying to keep up without an unseemly show of haste.

He stopped abruptly and looked at her as if he didn't really see her. "He's going to tail Jordan a few days, see what he can find out. I need to get as many members of the council as I can to listen to me instead of Agravaine _before_ any arrests are made, or it'll be the worst –" He swerved off into expletives again, so when he turned to head for the house, she didn't follow.

She looked back to where she'd last seen Merlin. Standing on Percy's porch in Emmett's Creek, one could see the length of the main street, and take in at a glance whatever action there was, and most action took place on that street, anyway. But here in Turad, she'd mostly been lucky to have tagged along with Arthur, to have seen and spoken to Merlin.

They didn't need her help, not really, any more than they'd needed her in Emmett's Creek. She didn't want to get in the way and put herself in danger as she'd done last fall, but it gave her a scared quiver in her stomach to think that Merlin could be hurt – badly, even – arrested tried sentenced – without her even knowing, or being able to be there for him.

"Good evening, Cousin Freya," a man's gruffly kind voice said beside her.

"Cousin Randall," she said, turning to smile up at him. "How was your day? Emma has been waiting for you to get home for dinner."

"Then by all means…" He offered his elbow to stroll her back home. "Am I right in assuming your thoughtful frown was in consideration of our visitor yestereve?"

Their visitor? Freya stared blankly before remembering. Oh yes – Philbert. She smiled politely to avoid answering, but Randall was occasionally as quick to read her as Gaius.

He smiled without looking at her directly. "I am happy to entertain any company that Emma is pleased to invite, for any reason whatsoever," he commented. "I greatly enjoyed discussing various business concerns with young Philbert. Emma's invitations allow you to meet likely young men here in Turad, but please don't feel this places you under any obligation to accept any proposals, or to encourage those visitors who don't happen to appeal to your fancy."

"Thank you for saying so," Freya said, hearing the relief in her own voice.

Randall only chuckled, leading her up the steps to the door.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was something of a surprise for Merlin, to see Freya at the corner of Sycamore Avenue.

He thought she saw him, recognized him, but didn't wait for her to point him out to Arthur. The agent, as he'd said to Freya, had his own theories and plans, and he was pretty sure they involved him, Merlin, laying low at Morgana's until Arthur cleaned things up in the political arena. But if it was only a matter of time til Agravaine insisted on searching Morgana's chalet for a hidden murderer, Merlin was not about to sit and wait to be re-arrested.

Were there risks in what he did? Of course. But there were risks in crossing the street, too.

So he left the note in Arthur's pocket in the manner of a petty thief. Anyone following Arthur would never notice him, and anyone watching Randall's house would never to able to intercept or question a messenger.

And Arthur would not be able to argue or issue commands against Merlin's chosen course.

He'd even added a line thanking Freya for her help – he hadn't been to see Taliesin at the Daved, but figured his lead at Jordan's residence on Orange Leaf Road was more urgent than anything Taliesin might have uncovered. If his quarry gave him the slip at Number Fourteen, he could follow up with the crippled singer. At least Merlin's presence in the city would relieve Freya of any responsibility to help.

The one thing he'd left out of his message to Arthur was his discovery of whose footsteps he'd heard on Jordan's second floor. If he revealed that, he figured Arthur would make a beeline for Orange Leaf Road to arrest the man, and their evidence would hang on hearsay rather than solid eyewitness testimony.

It was a risk to let the other roam Turad free to kill again, but as he himself intended to be a scant two steps behind him whenever he left Jordan's residence, the remaining council members would not be in serious danger. The reeve he couldn't care less about. And he didn't expect that Jordan would try to fulfill a contract himself, after the ruse of coming to Morgana to find someone else to do it. Leaving the Blue Rose district was also a calculated risk, but the odds that Mordred would leave Jordan's residence during this window of time were slim. It was daylight, and working hours for the council members during this time of crisis were not near over.

But it was only a matter of time til Arthur learned Merlin had left Morgana's, and he didn't want the agent to misunderstand his reason for that. Therefore, the clandestine note.

As Merlin paid the toll to enter the Blue Rose district, the collector met his eye, and shook his head wordlessly. No one matching Jordan or Mordred's description had passed this toll point; no one had been asking after someone of Merlin's description either. And Merlin doubled the fee he handed over.

He continued on to Orange Leaf Road, ducked into the back alley, and climbed to the roof of Number Twelve. He'd unhinged the front and rear vents of the attic, which allowed him to see and hear both entrances of Number Fourteen without exposing himself. This attic had the dust and silence of long years undisturbed; he didn't think there was much chance of the family below discovering him.

And so he waited and watched, once again stalking a murderer.

The coincidence wasn't lost on him. And after days of solitude and boredom in his third-floor cell at Morgana's, he couldn't distract himself from thinking. But it didn't seem to affect him as it used to, with nightmares and the feeling that his grip on sanity was slipping. He had expected that another quarry, another murderer to hunt, track down, bring to whatever justice he could manage, would bring back the hate and the rage, fill the empty hole inside him. Instead, he felt almost clinically detached.

Maybe it was because he didn't know Judge Alined or his family, hadn't cared much for what he'd seen of the man. Maybe it was because he hadn't been the one to discover the body dead in its bloody sheets.

But he had a suspicion that this problem he could point his mind and his body at – like the cadet mission to Sage Springs – was a temporary reprieve.

Mordred caught and punished, the tolls and the council's issues smoothed out, maybe even Freya married to some gentleman. Would he still be thinking of finding some ditch to lie in, die in? There'd always be killers and thieves to track down, here in Turad or elsewhere, but did he want to be taking orders from Morgana or Arthur for years stretching into more years? Would being the reeve of a small town like Emmett's Creek bring enough opportunity to keep active, occupied, distracted?

What would be _enough_?

**A/N: Kind of a bits-and-pieces chapter, but I promise action for the next time!**


	14. The Mill Village Attempt

**Chapter 14: The Mill Village Attempt**

If Merlin had been in Mordred's shoes, he would have left Orange Leaf Road in the busyness of early evening, lost himself in the foot traffic til he reached his target, then made himself invisible where he could still monitor the target and wait for an opportunity to present itself – whether he'd sneak into a man's bedroom and leave a corpse behind without even a chance to wake was beside the point.

Mordred, however, waited til one hour remained before midnight, then left Number Fourteen.

The toll barricade out of Blue Rose district was situated at the corner of the far end of Orange Leaf Road, and Merlin had already made sure of the possibility of bypassing it over the rooftops. Most of the tolls were manned all night as well as in the daytime, and this one was no different.

This was Mordred's plan also, evidently; Merlin heard his footfalls approach and pass over the attic on the roof, continue on. He waited til he no longer heard Mordred, then followed.

Mordred was remarkably unsuspicious for a revenger-turned-assassin. His glances behind were cursory, quick, and seldom – he was as easy a quarry as Merlin had tailed in a long while.

And as well as Merlin remembered the city, and with all the information he'd collected since his return – memorized, near enough, during his days of inactivity – on all the council members, it wasn't hard for him to guess accurately that Mordred's target this night was a councilman named Drew. Merlin hadn't put any faces to the names, but he recalled pretty clearly which excesses on his lists went with which names.

Drew oversaw one toll erected since the council's measure a year ago, but two new watchmen were on the payroll for his district – Mill Village, primarily small artisan shops and poorer working family homes. That could mean force, ensuring that the tolls were paid, but in Drew's case, Merlin doubted that. The tolls books had shown increasing passage of workmen of all kinds – improvements were being made in Mill Village, on a moderate scale, but enough to notice. There had been no indication of increased expenses for the councilman's household, and no appreciable increase in crime in his district, either.

The councilman lived in a brick house, square, flat-roofed, two stories. It was narrow but free-standing, no yard but flush to the street front and back, with side alleys. Small windows, mostly shuttered, the ones of the second floor equipped with grates over the lower half to prevent falls, and the windows at the front of the home actually boasted pace-wide balconies with curtained window-doors.

There were a pair of watchmen, or deputies assigned to bodyguard detail, at the corner nearest the toll barricade, but they lounged inattentively; neither of them glanced up as Merlin watched Mordred cross the street and creep to the northwest corner, the only one that showed light in the upstairs room, through parted shutters. He ignored the doors and windows on the ground level and began to climb the guttering on the west-alley side of the home.

Merlin didn't hesitate. If they caught him he could make enough of a fuss to scare Mordred off, too, which would accomplish his purpose for tonight, at least.

He moved lightly and soundlessly across the street and began to mirror Mordred's climb up the north face, the front of the house. Knocking at doors or breaking in and trying to find his way to the lighted room would take too much time, rouse the household, and alert Mordred – and they still might not believe him, especially with the suspicion over Judge Alined's death.

Merlin preferred to catch Mordred red-hand – no, _clean_-handed.

The gutter on the alley side gave ease and cover to Mordred's climb. Merlin, however, used the handrail of the front steps, some decorative brickwork over the front sitting-room window that protruded an inch or so, and pulled himself up by the floor of the balcony, the iron railing assisting much more than Morgana's stonework would have done. And the two watchmen never noticed.

He had a handful of minutes, at least, until Mordred struck. Even if he didn't wait for darkness inside the room, for the councilman to retire for the night and fall asleep, he'd still have to study the lay of the room and Drew's position in it, and make last-second changes to his plan of attack.

Merlin slid over the rail without shaking it, and paused, his heartbeat thundering through his head. Had Mordred heard him, had he fled? He heard nothing on the still night air.

The shutters protecting the glass-paned doors to the balcony were hooked back, the curtain-covered doors slightly ajar for the breeze. He could hear men's voices from inside the room now, two of them, but he concentrated on the window that Mordred had been climbing for.

Nudging the right-side glass door open further, he could see the corner of a writing-desk, a small free-standing portrait on top of it next to an open cigar-box. The peach silk curtains of the side window were drawn back only slightly – to allow the air to move, as it looked out only on the home immediately next to it, wall and roof – but the glass panes, side by side to imitate the balcony doors, stood open.

Merlin figured he had time to leap across the room and spoil Mordred's aim, at least, if he decided on a thrown blade anytime soon. If Mordred waited til the lamps were extinguished, he'd have to enter the room and tackle him in the darkness, hoping for the best. Though Mordred might have a candle stub for that plan that would give him away to Merlin.

So he positioned himself the way a race-runner might, and settled in to wait. The smell of cigar-smoke wafted from the room.

"I'm afraid it may come down to each member's opinion of Agravaine," one of the men inside the room said. "You know I trust him as far as I can throw him, but all you have is conjecture."

"I'm only asking that the council view the facts logically, and draw a fair conclusion."

The second voice was Arthur's.

Merlin didn't relax, though that did explain the watchmen loitering by the corner. The presence of a second might initially deter Mordred, but unless Drew addressed Arthur by his title, Mordred might not know the councilman was entertaining an agent.

If he did, would it stop him?

"None of us have known you longer than these few weeks, we have only to trust the judgment that made you an agent," the other voice said – Merlin assumed it was Councilman Drew. "I don't think any member would argue much over your trustworthiness, but your colleague –"

"Is an agent also," Arthur reminded him. "Ask yourself, did Agravaine or Alined act uncharacteristically that morning? Forget it's me that's asking, and think about Alined's order for an agent's arrest."

"It's a fact that the events of that morning proved detrimental to your authority and to the deliberations of the council," the other conceded. "I couldn't say with any certainty that any one of us was unsurprised by Judge Alined's insistence on an arrest-"

"Then you admit that it seemed –"

"Let me play devil's advocate for a moment," the councilman interrupted. "Was Agent Merlin employed by the revenger Morgana years ago. Yes."

"That's not something we've tried to hide," Arthur objected. "No charges have ever been substantiated against her or members of her organization."

"Substantiated," the councilman scoffed lightly. "Fact is, Agravaine claims your colleague has a history of violence –"

"Not unheard of for an agent." Merlin could hear the grin in Arthur's voice.

"He also claims that Agent Merlin was caught trying to escape that very day – now," the councilman went on, as if overriding the objections he expected from the agent, "I grant you that it is very strange for a man to submit quite calmly to one agent and the reeve, only to turn around and try to fight through five armed deputies –"

"I was there; Agravaine wasn't," Arthur said shortly. "And what of the other prisoner who actually picked the lock?"

"No one admits his presence but your agent. And the fact remains that Agent Merlin did escape later that night, and just hours before Judge Alined was murdered in his bed."

There was silence for a moment. Did a breath stir the silk curtain, or someone's fingertips? Merlin edged the door open a few more inches, leaned forward in his crouch. He wasn't sure whether to hope that Mordred _was_ just this stupid…

"You say this proves the existence of an assassin fulfilling death-contracts, the escape of Agent Merlin an unfortunate coincidence. You say his altercation with the deputies left him in no condition to attempt an assassination himself – yet he did accomplish his escape, and has eluded capture ever since. Agravaine says the only danger is your colleague gone rogue, trying to revenge his embarrassment in the council chambers, or prove your claim of a hired assassin. We've seen no proof of this mystery assassin, yet your agent, accused of assault, escaped the reeve's holding cell and remains at large in Turad under suspicion of murder."

Arthur didn't answer. Boots shuffled on the carpet in the part of the room Merlin couldn't see; they weren't taking their leave of one another – this discussion could last until daylight.

From his window, it was likely Mordred could see both men, and would be familiar with Drew's description; surely it was obvious who the councilman's guest was. Would Mordred retreat? Would he try for both men, or wait for Arthur's departure?

"The facts weight against your colleague," Drew finished. "For the rest of it, we can only take your word or the reeve's."

Merlin knew the desperate excitement of steeling oneself to such a deed, planning, following through almost to the end. Would the tension of being so close, the thought of further risks associated with planning a second attempt, the shame of failure tonight, overcome whatever caution Mordred possessed?

A shadow moved on the tan-cream carpet between Merlin and the alley-window where Mordred presumably waited. Merlin's attention was caught less than a second, but in that second, Mordred moved. A hand appeared on the glass, pushing the pane inward, clearing a wider gap - a flash of pale face leaning forward, the glint of light on an edge of steel beside the face, behind and to the right.

Merlin shot forward and up from his crouch, leaping, reaching – disturb the aim, block the cast, _anything_ – and knew he would be a heartbeat too late.

A shout, a curse behind and to his left – his fingertips curled around the edge of the pane of the opened window, slammed it shut just as Mordred's arm came forward. The councilman hollered.

Arthur shouted, "Down! Get down!"

And the thrown dagger smashed the window.

Merlin hit the tan-cream carpet showered with broken glass, in a full-length sprawl that was never easy to spring back up from quickly. He did his best, however, throwing the unbroken pane back as Mordred released the safety grill and dropped to the cobblestones of the alley.

Snarling up at Merlin, he ran to the back corner of the house and disappeared.

Merlin swung one leg over the grill to descend and follow, but Arthur was beside him restraining him roughly, and he remembered his unusual dress. He turned immediately so the agent could identify him, shifting his weight back to the leg still inside the room, not trusting the grill to hold him indefinitely.

"Oh," Arthur said blankly, and released him.

Merlin looked down the way Mordred had gone, took a deep breath, let it out. Too late to follow, now. He didn't figure Mordred would try for Drew or any other councilmen this night, but probably would return to Jordan's place. He could catch up with him there on the morrow.

"That was Mordred?" Arthur said to him.

Merlin nodded, and followed him back into the room. Drew roared through the chamber's opened door for someone to fetch the watchmen, before slamming it closed again.

"I didn't know that was you, for a minute," Arthur said, and it was almost an apology. "You picked up his trail at Jordan's? Does he know you followed him?"

"Yes, and probably not. He might assume I was with you." Merlin looked past Arthur at Councilman Drew, the youngest-looking member of the council, with ginger-sandy hair and a dark scowl. He was pacing in a long burgundy dressing-robe and muttering to himself. Merlin wanted to say, _do you believe me now_, but didn't.

"Your hand is bleeding," Arthur said.

"Who the hell is this?" Drew demanded, striding across the carpet to them. Merlin relinquished his hand for Arthur's inspection.

"Agent Merlin, meet Councilman Drew," Arthur said. "You've got glass in here."

Holding Merlin by the wrist, he plucked out a sliver of window glass from the inside of Merlin's thumb. Blood dripped, and Arthur fumbled a pocket handkerchief out for Merlin to grip – and _then_ it stung.

"This is Agent Merlin," Drew repeated, looking him over closely. "Lovely. And who was that other fellow?"

"That was Mordred," Arthur said, somewhat ironically. "The alleged assassin."

"Well," Drew said, looking Merlin over again, head to toe, eyes lingering on the dark bruises on Merlin's bare arms. "Well, it seems I probably owe you my life." He was silent for a moment, keen blue eyes darting from Merlin to Arthur. "I suppose, if I believe he was beaten too badly to enter Alined's home and murder him, I also assume someone else aided his escape from the reeve's holding?"

"I told you," Arthur said mildly. "Agent Merlin was not trying to escape when the deputies attacked him. I didn't trust his safety in their hands."

"I have to ask," Drew said, "did you know Mordred was coming here tonight?"

Arthur caught Merlin's arm. "Do you mean, did we set this up just to convince you?" he said calmly. "No. Agent Merlin and I have been out of touch for a few days."

"As far as I'm concerned," Merlin said, speaking evenly with some effort, squeezing the handkerchief deliberately, "Mordred could have been after any of your members tonight, and I would have done no differently. I did not expect Arthur to be here."

Drew sighed. "I'm afraid it might still be a hard sell to the council," he warned. "Even with my testimony, there will be those to question the truth of tonight's scene. And there's still no proof that Agravaine was or is involved with the death-contracts."

"Arresting Jordan and Mordred won't really solve anything if the reeve is responsible and they refuse to implicate him," Arthur commented. "But I can't let Merlin keep tailing Mordred to foil assassination attempts while we wait for the reeve to make a mistake."

"Too risky?" Merlin demanded, putting his hands at his hips. If Arthur thought he'd slip up, allow one of the councilmen to be hurt –

"Well, tomorrow is our day off, but I can manage a few visits," Drew said. "The original arrest was ordered by Judge Alined, but I don't believe any charges were ever posted, which leaves the matter in Agravaine's hands and yours, Agent Arthur. If Agent Merlin thinks he can avoid arrest one more day, the council can vote to extend the benefit of the doubt to him, based on my witness of the truth of an assassin filling death-contracts. The council does stand higher than Agravaine – with Mordred and Jordan in prison, we can investigate the matter further to see who's involved in the conspiracy, and your account of the night of Alined's death will exonerate Agent Merlin. If there's enough suspicion of Agravaine, we might even be able to persuade the council to remove him from his post and appoint another reeve, if only temporary."

"Meanwhile the toll issue is set aside," Arthur said in a grumbling tone. "Well, Agent Merlin, can you keep from being arrested for one more day?"

"Mordred won't wait," Merlin said. "He'll need to redeem himself, prove he's worth his pay. Councilman, you should move your family elsewhere for a few days. With the watch roused, Mordred will either hide or leave Mill Village – either way, I won't find him til he returns to the Blue Rose district, but I can't guess when that'll be. He might wait to try for an actual kill, or he may just report on what happened tonight."

"Councilman, will you let Merlin remain here tonight, in case Mordred returns?" Arthur said, and Drew nodded. "Tomorrow, you can take a watchman with you making your rounds of your fellow members – reminding them of the possibility of another attack. You and I," he said to Merlin, "will meet at Number Fourteen Orange Leaf Road at daybreak. We'll arrest Jordan, Mordred if he's there, and set a trap for him if he's not."

Merlin didn't like sitting and waiting, but with Mordred gone and the watch roused, it didn't make sense for him to be roaming the streets. He nodded reluctantly.

Someone rapped at the door, and at Drew's impatient, "Come," a man's tousled head appeared.

"Two watchmen and a deputy here, sir," he reported. "Another remains at the toll booth, and three others are on their way."

"I'll go speak to them," Arthur offered.

"Let them know they are to treat Agent Merlin as cleared of charges," Drew said, "but don't let on that he's here."

Arthur left the room, the tousle-haired man stepping back to let him pass. "Missus Nell was asking if you had need of her, sir," he added. "She was wakened by the noise – I'll just get a dustpan and clean up that mess." He indicated the broken glass littering the rug.

"That still bleeding?" Drew asked Merlin, gesturing to his hand. Merlin peeled back Arthur's kerchief, and nodded as blood welled down his palm. "Tell Missus Nell we have an injured man here, and we could use her steady hand with a needle," Drew said to his man at the door, who sketched a bow and disappeared. The councilman watched Merlin prop his elbow in his other hand dispassionately to keep the cut elevated. "You've had a rough couple of days of it," he said.

_A rough couple of years of it_. Merlin didn't respond, and Drew crossed to the doors of the balcony where Merlin had burst in, glanced down to see how he had climbed, then returned, shaking his head.

After a moment, he said, "That was quite a speech you gave in the Inner Chamber." He paused, but Merlin remained silent. "Those were all accurate figures, weren't they? I mean, you weren't –"

"Making them up?" Merlin finished. "No, I didn't guess at those numbers. Anyone could have found the same information from doctors' notes, watch reports, and under-takers' orders. It'll be in the final report; likely Arthur will present it to the council as well as the agency in Camelot."

"Jonesy said someone was hurt?" A plump sweet-faced woman with her hair tied in white papers and lace on her matching burgundy robe trotted into the room, carrying a small light blue sewing-case. "I hope it isn't you, my dear?"

"Not at all," Drew replied. "The window broke, and this gentleman was unfortunate enough to cut his hand on one of the pieces. Watch your feet, my love," he added as she approached.

She paused to pick something up from where it was half-hidden under the writing-desk and held out Mordred's knife. "Yours, my dear?" she said, and Drew took it with a grimace.

"This is my wife, Nell," he told Merlin, and the plump lady beamed at him as he opened his hand for her inspection, before bending to her task.

My dear. My love. It was obvious that the councilman and his wife were very happy together, he treating her with solicitous care and respect, and she responding with deference, treating her husband's guest without question or complaint. Merlin found himself relaxing in the atmosphere of geniality, reminded almost of the relationship Percy and Shasta enjoyed, without the quick fun at the other's expense the innkeepers of Emmett's Creek occasionally indulged in. Reminded of his own parents, without the hurry and tension of chores and pressing responsibilities, the underlying sorrow of illness and loss.

And Merlin was shocked to realize that he was considering what sort of relationship he himself might have with a wife.

_Don't think of it_, he told himself, as Nell wrapped a tidy bandage around his hand and smiled happily up at her husband, watching her with pride. _Don't even think of it_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Dinner was quiet that evening. Arthur never returned to eat with them, and Randall worked straight through the meal, upstairs in his study off the master bedroom.

Emma, with fond exasperation, asked Betsey to take a tray up to him. After the table was cleared, she got out a pattern for a new summer dress to fit Vivian for. "I've thought and thought," Emma told Freya across the room, sitting by the window with a little book of poetry. "But the color black, in any material, just does not fit this pattern. I can't wait til you can leave widow's mourning behind, my dear."

The front gate creaked slightly as it opened; footsteps quickly mounted the stair outside. They all assumed it was Arthur, Freya noticed, so when the knock sounded, she looked up in time to see her cousins jump at the sound also. They waited, looking at each other, as Betsey hurried to answer the door. It was a male voice, indistinct, and the maid closed the door on the visitor without consulting Emma. This raised her eyebrows and Vivian's, and when Betsey entered announcing a message for Miss Freya, the eyebrows rose still further.

Freya came to take the note from the maid, heart thudding. Maybe Merlin wanted to talk again, maybe he wondered if she'd heard from Taliesin–

"Who is it from?" Vivian demanded. Emma restrained her from hurrying to Freya's side, and continued pinning the paper pattern to her form.

"Philbert," Freya answered, disappointed, and finished reading the short missive. "He wants to take me to the Daved Cathedral tomorrow morning."

"Didn't the messenger wait for a reply, Betsey?" Emma said.

The plump maid shook her head as Freya went on, "The note says no answer is necessary; he'll come by after breakfast if I care to accompany him."

Emma and Vivian exchanged arch smiles, and as the mother continued with her work, her smile became more satisfied. Vivian, meeting Freya's eyes, lifted her eyebrows again, her smile turning mischievous enough to make Freya blush.

The Daved Cathedral – with Philbert. At least it was a way of getting to the cathedral again without arousing suspicion. As Freya folded the note and tucked it away, she wondered if Taliesin would be there, if she could find a way to speak to him away from Philbert. And what if he had news for Merlin? She guessed she'd have to pass it along through Arthur, though he'd probably be angry with both her and Merlin for her involvement.

She wondered in a lonely sort of way, when she'd see Merlin again.

Philbert's idea of taking Freya to the cathedral was an open-air carriage and a three-hour tour of the city.

Freya tried to pay attention to his speeches about different points of interest, both public and personal, but she found herself distracted much of the time, and impatient. She noted each toll they passed, and couldn't stop glancing around as if hoping to see one or the other of the agents. The only time she forgot herself was when they crossed the First Bridge, and she realized she could see Morgana's chalet over the buildings between them, high on the north hill of the city.

"It's a beautiful place," Philbert remarked, after a cursory glance to see what had caught her attention. "Pity."

"What's a pity?" she asked, out of courtesy.

"The woman who lives there is a revenger, a vulture." His cultured tone was contemptuous. "The payment of crimes should be left for the law to decide."

Freya agreed with him on principle, but thought she should point out, "I knew a reeve once who took bribes not to notice the crime in his shire. What then?"

"Ah, here we are," Philbert said as the carriage rolled to a stop, genteelly ignoring her statement and question both. "The Green Vine Tearoom of Turad."

After a lengthy and expensive lunch – Freya was shocked at what Philbert paid without blinking; her own lemon water and cucumber salad could have bought two of Shasta's largest bowls of thick stew – they finally arrived at the Daved.

Where Philbert tucked her hand securely into the crook of his elbow and proceeded to stroll leisurely around the enormous nave, lecturing to her on the art, and sculpture, and glass. There was a boys' choir singing at the front of the chamber, and she listened to that as she walked, though the many voices made it impossible to hear if Taliesin was out in the portico.

"Now here is a curiosity," Philbert said, drawing her past the northeast exit. "This is over two hundred years old –"

"Philbert, I wish to go out into the portico," Freya said, with gentle resistance to the pressure of his hand. "A breath of air –"

He huffed through his nose and changed his direction abruptly, not looking at her and not smiling. She didn't mind his pique, though, compared to the real anger she'd known from other men, it was akin to one of Vivian's pouts.

The soaring notes of the boys' chorus faded as they walked further into the shady portico, and the rustle and shout of the street began to be audible. She didn't have a clear view of the entire base of the statue, couldn't tell if Taliesin was there or not. He wasn't singing, if he was there.

"The portico," Philbert demonstrated shortly, waving his hand. "Now let's return to the cool of the –"

A voice burst upon the air, rose to the overhang, and resounded with one of the springtime ballads Freya was familiar with. She sighed with relief, recognizing Taliesin's voice.

"Let's stay and listen," she suggested.

Philert actually raised his hands to his hips. He opened his mouth, reconsidered, then said, "By all means, Miss Freya, stay and hear the song. I will be waiting for you – just inside." He pointed to show where he meant, and moved away before she had a chance to respond.

She hovered for a moment in indecision – perhaps he expected her to hurry after him with humility and apology – perhaps she should? But he didn't turn to see if she followed, so she moved, like before, quite close to the crooked little man seated at the base of the statue.

He sang with evident pleasure, his eyes on the ceiling above them. He glanced down once, momentarily, straight at her, then finished the ballad and thanked the people quietly as they tossed their coins to him. When he didn't begin again, but pocketed the coins and settled his cap on his head, the crowd began to drift away.

"Thought I'd see Merlin before I saw you again," Taliesin said, maneuvering to his feet and leaning on his crutch. "You know where I can get a message to him?"

"No, I'm sorry," Freya said. Merlin was roaming Turad as far as she knew, following Jordan. Arthur could be anywhere, too, despite the inactivity of this week-end day.

"Well, you'll have to pass it on, then," Taliesin decided. "Let's go."

"Ah, I'm not sure I should –"

"We may not have a great deal of time," Taliesin threw over his shoulder, beginning to shuffle-hop his way from the portico. "You better decide if you want to come, or stay here with your gent friend."

Freya walked along beside him. "Where are we going? How far? And why?" Merlin trusted this little man, and evidently Taliesin knew something of Merlin also. She wasn't really worried about her safety, but the customs of Turad's higher society had affected her, and she didn't want her decisions to come to reflect badly on her cousins.

"You remember the third man you described to me? The one you didn't know his name?" Taliesin said. Freya was surprised how fast he shuffle-hopped along without seeming to lose any breath. "Turns out I know him, just slightly. He showed me where the man lives who paid him to wait in a jail cell for Merlin, and it isn't too far from here." He gave her a sly crooked grin. "Maybe you can be back before your fancy gent misses you."

Philbert would be worried if he couldn't find her. She'd left her home in his care, so he was responsible for her safety, and whereabouts. If she was gone too long, he wouldn't simply grow exasperated and leave her to find her own way home.

Taliesin continued north; she glanced back over her shoulder at the twin domes of the cathedral as they rounded a corner to make sure she could find her way back. The crippled singer, she thought, could give Arthur a run for his money for swiftness of pace. They crossed one toll into a section as far from the Daved as Key Park was, but northwest instead of northeast, with Morgana's chalet in Hillside between them and up the hill.

The homes here were adjacent to each other, sharing their roofs and without the iron privacy rail and small front-yard area that Sycamore Avenue enjoyed.

"There you are," Taliesin said, halting on the walkway and making no indication to any of the half-dozen homes around them. She tried not to stare around herself too openly, but waited for him to elaborate. "Andre said it was the one on the end, across this here street." She looked over his shoulder at the home he described; it seemed ordinary - inconspicuous, even. "From the way Andrew told me, the man you described as Mordred could be the same one who paid him to help Merlin escape." He shrugged. "You can tell Merlin, Andre says he didn't know there was a deputy ambush waiting for Merlin. He was only hired to spring him, thought he was doing him a favor, even."

_What now_? Freya didn't know she'd spoken aloud til Taliesin answered.

"Well, he's there now, you can tell by the open windows on the second floor – that would be the bedrooms."

Merlin was following Jordan, somewhere in the city. And Mordred was the paid assassin, supposedly. What were her options? She could return to the Daved, persuade Philbert to take her home – then wait for Arthur and hope she could bring him to this place from Sycamore Avenue without getting both of them lost. Meanwhile, Mordred could leave at any time to kill again. She didn't know where Taliesin could find either Arthur or Merlin, but –

"Could you take a message to Morgana?" Freya said. "Maybe she can send one of her apprentices until we can let Merlin know about this place."

"Right you are, Miss," Taliesin answered. "Now, are you wanting me to escort you back to the Daved, or go right on to the revenger's?"

"Go right to Morgana," Freya advised. "I'll be fine on my own."

With a quick nod, Taliesin swung himself around and shuffle-hopped down the street and around the corner-home without so much as a glance up at the house to betray their interest.

Freya felt cold and sick and exposed, and wondered how anyone could do this for their living. She tried to wait without looking like she was waiting, but had no idea if she was successful. There wasn't much traffic on this week-end day; she felt she stuck out like a sore thumb even if she wasn't openly watching the home on the corner. But she worried if she looked away too long, someone – Mordred – might slip out and be gone, leaving her foolishly watching an empty house.

Then she wondered about a back door. Maybe if she went to the side street, she could see the front and the back of the place at once.

How long would it take for Taliesin to return with a professional? Then she remembered that Mordred had been one of Morgana's apprentices – could she trust whoever Morgana sent?

She forced her hands to stop twisting the strings of her wrist-purse, forced her feet to stroll slowly to the corner. She felt very much as she had the day Padlow had returned to Emmett's Creek, stepping out into the street trying to do the right thing, and only succeeding in complicating things further.

But… what other choice did she have?

**A/N: Finally we get to the ending action… over the top on the next one, folks!**


	15. Orange Leaf Road

**Chapter 15: Orange Leaf Road**

"See anything yet?" Arthur asked for the third time.

The muffled grunts and unintelligible threats from Jordan and Mordred, bound and gagged side by side on the sofa, had subsided more than an hour ago. But based on the information they'd gathered from Mordred's furious taunts and Jordan's ineffectual attempts to silence him, they'd decided to wait the day out at Number Fourteen with the two captives, hoping to catch a third red-handed, so to speak.

Merlin was in the kitchen, sitting on the low table, watching Orange Leaf Road between the folds of the yellow curtains. He didn't answer, straightening to peer down the street toward the unseen toll barricade. It was hard to mistake Taliesin's unique gait, but the woman with him looked like – _no, surely not._

"You let Freya read the note I left in your pocket?" he asked. He and Arthur couldn't see each other around the corner, but the living area was small enough they barely needed to raise their voices to hear each other at opposite ends of the house.

"Not exactly."

"But you passed along the message for her at the end?" Merlin persisted. There was an uncomfortable pause, and his heart sank.

"I think so. I don't remember, I was quite angry with you. Why?"

Merlin had written a postscript to the small note, thanking Freya for her contribution to their investigation, with the intent of relieving her from any further responsibility for assistance. Watching Number Fourteen and following Mordred, Merlin hadn't had time to visit Taliesin or follow up on any information he might have unearthed.

He cursed under his breath, certain now that the woman in black was Freya.

She spoke with the little crippled singer for a moment, her eyes looking over his crooked shoulder – straight at Merlin, it seemed. Useless to hope somehow he'd missed anything significant at any of the other homes along Orange Leaf Road. Somehow Taliesin had discovered something that led them here. And he had only himself to blame that Taliesin would have brought her at all.

Then Taliesin swung about and continued down the street, out of sight around the corner, and Merlin cursed again, slamming his hand on the table where he sat. Why had the old man left her alone?

She stood there uncertainly, looking all about her, but mostly over to Number Fourteen where Merlin watched hidden behind the curtain. She was twisting her hands together.

"What is it?" Arthur lounged into the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

Did Merlin dare risk dashing out on the street, bringing her in, hiding her safely away in one off the bedrooms upstairs? He hadn't noticed any interaction between the house's inhabitants and any neighbors, but… this was their one shot at Agravaine. If anyone tipped him off…

He and Arthur had come in the silent gray dawn, before the housekeeper arrived. They'd picked the locks, caught Jordan and Mordred asleep in their beds, then sent the housekeeper – innocent and ignorant, Arthur had proclaimed after a moment's conversation - straight back home again with two weeks' pay and a promise for an interview for her testimony in a few days. Arthur had then turned his attention to interrogating the two prisoners, his right as the arresting agent.  
>They'd discovered that the reeve was expected to check in with Jordan later in the day. So they'd waited, the rest of the neighborhood oblivious to the morning's events, and their presence.<p>

It might be that no one would notice if Merlin did go out to Freya, but it also might look odd enough for a young well-dressed woman alone on the street to be suddenly ushered indoors by someone dressed as he was – enough for gossip to start and the neighbors to show interest in Number Fourteen. And even if he had no other contacts in the area to give specific information, their quarry was bound to be skittish enough to be scared off by just something as slight as gossip and interest. Yet Merlin couldn't leave Arthur alone with the two prisoners, expecting the reeve, who might not be alone, to escort her elsewhere.

Then the choice was taken out of his hands.

Around the same corner where Taliesin and Freya had appeared not even a quarter of an hour ago, came the unmistakable figure of Reeve Agravaine. He was alone, but he was wary and suspicious, and focused immediately on the nervous young woman standing alone on the walkway.

"Has Agravaine ever met Freya?" Merlin said to Arthur, who strode to his side at the window. There was no sound from the sitting room, which meant nothing good, and Arthur should not leave the prisoners unsupervised for long.

"_Damn_. Walk right past," Arthur advised the reeve under his breath. "Don't talk to her, don't – just – Merlin!" He leaped to the door and prevented Merlin from opening it only by leaning bodily against it. "You can't," he told him shortly, his blue eyes narrowed. "You go out there, he'll arrest you – you'll be on trial for murder, and he'll go free."

"You go then," Merlin demanded.

"Same thing. He'll be surprised to see me, but he'll claim to have legitimate business in the area, and we have nothing on him. He'll never admit he was coming here, no matter what these two say, he'll deny any connection and never set foot in this house again. She doesn't know we're here, does she?"

Merlin moved back to the window. If the reeve thought she was watching this place, or if she told him anything, he'd either slip away, or come in anyway – and he wouldn't do that if he suspected an ambush. He took one glance out the window, and cursed again.

Agravaine had Freya by the elbow and was hurrying her along toward Number Fourteen. Her face was white, her dark eyes large and frightened. Whatever she'd said to him, or he to her, she knew she was in trouble.

"I'll go around the outside, get behind him," Arthur hissed. "Get him talking – he won't reveal much if I'm here. He expects the charge of murder discredits anything _you_ say, though. Get back, out of sight. We need him inside and the door closed behind him. Then we're both witnesses to his intentional presence here, and his abduction of the girl."

_The girl,_ he'd had said, not using her name. Arthur was every inch an agent, and would play the circumstances accordingly. Which meant he and Freya, to a certain extent, were on their own.

As Arthur slipped through the dining room and out the back door, Merlin retreated to the sitting room. He hustled Jordan and Mordred off the sofa, which would be visible from the front door, into the back corner by the bookshelf, kept them in place with drawn knife. Mordred he'd gut like a fish if he had to, and never regret it, and Jordan he'd subdue with force if necessary. They believed it, too, and though they exchanged glances and shifted their weight, neither one made a move toward him.

A heavy fist pounded on the front door three times. Then again, three times, and they heard him growl something. Merlin's fingers were cold, his weight on his toes, watching the eyes of the two captives for any indication that they might try something.

Then the latch lifted, and they heard the reeve clearly, "Elsie? Dammit, why didn't you answer?" Silence. "Hello? Jordan?"

Merlin had a second knife out, but to face the hallway, he had to turn his back to the men, stand next to one of them. Their hands had been bound in front of them, and he was close, very close. But he didn't think either would risk death or injury to warn the reeve. There was nothing in that, for them.

Footsteps came down the hall, heavy and slow, with a lighter shuffling that would be Freya, shoved along in front. Her eyes, dark in her pale face, found him immediately. She gasped in surprise, Agravaine swore.

"Merlin," she said. Tense, scared, but calm. He guessed she'd keep her wits about her.

Agravaine scanned the room, backed Freya toward the dining room to glance around the corner to the kitchen before returning his attention to the three men in the living room. Deliberately showing Merlin an inch of the blade he held to Freya's back, to keep him in place, he demanded, "Is the other agent here?"

"No," Merlin said. "And I want to know, why you want me dead."

Agravaine ignored him, looking to his confederates. Jordan and Mordred were both sweating, but looked at the reeve with relief in both pairs of eyes. Jordan jerked his head toward the back door off the dining room and grunted, mumbling behind his gag. It wasn't a straight affirmative or negative; Agravaine would need to know more.

"I advise you to put the knife away, son, before somebody gets hurt," he said condescendingly. Calculating, surely, to anger Merlin and provoke him to act rashly. It might possibly have worked, if the reeve hadn't forced Freya to enter the house as well. Rash wouldn't do, when she was depending on him.

"I advise you to put your own weapon away," Merlin responded. "You don't want your boys hurt, do you? I expect you know plenty of killers personally, but you wanted a fall-man, didn't you? Someone else you could blame for hiring an assassin. Maybe you even wanted to apprehend these two yourself, take all the credit for arresting the murderers? That would get you elected to the council, wouldn't it?"

There was a tense silence. The reeve had surely promised them aid in his official capacity if any suspicion or blame came to them; if Agravaine denied any responsibility for them, any connection or concern, either prisoner could turn on him and spill plenty of details to incriminate them all. Yet if he acted to protect them, he'd have to make sure Merlin – and Freya, too – could not reveal that.

"Drop the knife, kid, or you're going to get this girl killed." The reeve's eyes narrowed, his shoulder twitched slightly.

Freya gave a startled gasp, and there was pain in it.

And Merlin was back in Emmett's Creek, in the dark and the snow, supporting her on the stolen horse that carried them both back to light and safety. Again he burned with rage over the cruel beating she'd endured that night, the blood from a stabbing wound already seeping onto his clothing, unknown to him.

He couldn't have that, not again. However it might help or hinder Arthur's evidence gained against the reeve. Her dress was fine and feminine, her hair combed smooth and arranged in soft curls pinned up on her head. Why had he ever asked her to speak to Taliesin instead of going himself? These risks were not hers; he had no right to take chances with her life.

"She means something to you, my young fighting cock?" Agravaine said softly.

She probably shouldn't have said his name. Whether she realized that or not, she said to him, "I'm sorry."

Her eyes had not left his face. He said nothing. She said nothing further.

"Where's Agent Arthur?" the reeve demanded. "Was he here?"

Merlin didn't move, didn't answer.

"Untie those two," Agravaine instructed, a hint of condescension in his tone. He felt he had, or was quickly gaining, the upper hand. That was when the guilty would talk. He had not opted to bluff Merlin so far, blustering about Merlin's escape, which meant he didn't care if Merlin knew the truth. Which meant he'd already decided to kill both of them, or at least Freya, and bury Merlin under more false accusations.

He'd take Agravaine on, he'd even try for these three at once and give himself better than even odds in this small space, but he'd not do a thing while she was in danger. Merlin held out his right-hand blade, twisting it so the grip was upright and free, and swung it around so it was within Mordred's reach.

Mordred took the knife hesitatantly, suspecting a trick, then turned it on the cords that bound Jordan. Hands free, Jordan ripped the gag from his mouth.

"Agent Arthur was just here, Reeve," he gasped out, dry-mouthed. "Went out the back door there not five minutes before you came in."

"Get Mordred free," Agravaine decided. "Then go after the agent to see where he went. Did he see me?" Jordan and Mordred exchanged glances, and shrugged; Merlin's conversation with Arthur in the kitchen had been out of sight and hearing of the two prisoners. "Make sure he doesn't come back in."

Jordan turned Merlin's knife on Mordred's bonds. As soon as he was ungagged, he spat an obscene insult at Merlin, and at a nod from the reeve, circled him to take the second knife from his left hand.

Merlin barely heard him, and cared not at all. He could have separated the one-time apprentice from a finger or two, as carelessly as Mordred disarmed him, but for Freya's sake, Merlin concentrated on cooperation. Jordan went to the door, glanced both ways down the alley, and closed it behind him.

"Hands on the back of your head," Agravaine commanded. Standard procedure til materials could be found to tie his hands – the cords Arthur had used on Jordan and Mordred were cut now and worthless.

Merlin lifted his hands, clasped his fingers together across the back of his head. Mordred snickered.

"You think that killing council members means they'll elect you to a vacant position?" Merlin said, directing the comment over Freya's head to Reeve Agravaine. "Or maybe you always wanted to write the title _Judge_ in front of your name?" He used a mocking tone to goad the other to speak, to focus on him.

"What does someone like you know of ambition?" Agravaine returned contemptuously. "You know the crisis Turad is in; with me on the council –"

"So the judge was useful for discrediting me," Merlin interrupted, still taunting. "But a liability after that? Was he too honest for you, you thought he'd end up confessing, revealing too much? Or maybe he was too crooked for you, started blackmailing you – as soon as you were elected, you'd be nothing but his pawn on the council?"

"You best keep your mouth shut, boy," Agravaine said dangerously. "Mordred, get him tied and gagged."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya felt humiliation flush all down her body as Merlin allowed himself to be disarmed. Once again, she'd stepped blind into a situation and made things worse. Where was Arthur? Why had he left?

Merlin's face was unreadable, his eyes dark and focused over her head on the man who'd taken hold of her in the street and forced her into this house – Reeve Agravaine, as it turned out. Tears came to her eyes when Merlin raised his hands vulnerably behind his head, and the man who'd remained, Mordred, laughed derisively, but Merlin paid him no attention that she could see. Grimy, unshaven, dressed as the lowest of laborers, Merlin still carried himself as the equal of all in the room, remained as fiercely intent as ever.

"Mordred," he spat at the reeve contemptuously, still ignoring the man behind him. "If you wanted to hire an assassin, why'd you let Jordan pick him? The judge was an old man, asleep in his bed – I didn't even have to do anything at Drew's, could've sat in a chair and watched him miss his mark by a couple of yards at least –"

"Bastard." Mordred punched Merlin in the side, at the bottom of his ribs.

Merlin doubled over, hands remaining on the back of his head, half-coughing and half-laughing. It teased a memory from her, of the night he'd first showed her defensive tactics, and – she'd elbowed him. Merlin restrained and abused was so _wrong_ somehow, Freya's heart rebelled at the thought of him suffering for her headlong thoughtlessness.

"Enough for now, Mordred," the reeve drawled patronizingly behind her. "You'll get paid for your results. And these two will be a bonus. Now get something to tie his hands with." Mordred shot the reeve a resentful look as he passed between her and Merlin toward the arched doorway leading to a dining room.

Quick as thought, Merlin's heavy boot shifted, and the man tripped sprawling, Merlin's knife clattering from his hand across the tile under the table. Mordred rolled over on the carpet, gaping; Merlin's gaze never shifted from the reeve.

Freya's mind raced frantically – Mordred unarmed and on the floor was in a bad position. What could she do?

Only one idea presented, over and over, one image – a dark night by the side of the road, a campfire with the wagon beyond. Merlin's hands guiding her, his voice in her ear.

Without stopping to reconsider, Freya acted as decisively as she ever had, fully committing as she raised her foot to stamp the pointed heel of her boot down into the instep of the man behind her, clasped hands breaking his hold to drive her elbow back into the pit of his stomach, heedless of where his threatening blade hovered. Dimly, as she spun to punch the reeve's neck, she saw Merlin's hands swing free, his body turn as he kicked the man on the floor with all his strength. She mimicked his uninhibited force, lifting her knee upward as hard as she could.

Agravaine howled and dropped the knife, shoving her away reactively.

Somehow her boot came down on the hilt of the discarded knife, and her ankle twisted sharply. She let her weight continue to the carpet, catching herself on her hands and lowering to a sitting position.

The reeve stumbled backward down the hall, clutching at himself and groaning, just as the door opened and Jordan leaped through. He side-stepped into the kitchen, avoiding the reeve – but Arthur, immediately behind, did not, and both men went down in a fighting tangle.

Shaking, Freya turned her attention back to the sitting room in time to see Jordan enter in a rush.

Merlin spun to deflect his charge, aiming another kick at Mordred, who was trying to rise dizzily to his feet, flattening him back to the floor. He didn't move again, but Jordan, with Merlin's first blade still in hand, slashed at Merlin, trying to take advantage of the split-second division of his attention.

Freya's breath caught at Merlin's sheer ferocity – he was a wolf, a panther. He fought without hesitation, without fear, his moves calculated and precise but lightning fast, his reactions accurate without thought or plan.

Merlin avoided the swipe of Jordan's weapon half a dozen times, retreating, then tripped back over Mordred's inert body and went sliding into the next room, headlong into a jumble of chair legs.

Jordan started after him, but before Freya had time to gasp a warning, Merlin had twisted and his right hand flashed forward. Jordan screamed and fell to his knees, the knife in his hand dropping as he reached for a hilt suddenly protruding from the shoulder of his shirt. She stared, uncomprehending, as he crumpled down, then realized that Merlin had retrieved the knife Mordred had lost, while luring Jordan on with a pretense of vulnerability.

Merlin lay back on his elbows for a moment, his head dropped back, his chest heaving with gasps for air.

She suddenly realized that Arthur and Reeve Agravaine were no longer in the hallway. Not even in the house, she suspected; the front door was unlatched and swinging on its hinges, everything still but for Jordan's whimpering, which stilled after a moment as his consciousness slipped.

Merlin stood up then, and she shifted her feet to a more comfortable position, her left ankle beginning to throb sharply.

"You all right?" he said shortly, giving her a searching glance and assuming her answer as he disappeared around the arched doorway.

She could hear drawers and cabinet-doors banging, then he returned with a length of kitchen-twine, which he sliced in half with his knife. He slid the blade into his belt and knelt to roll Mordred's body enough to retie his hands behind his back, swiftly and expertly. He dragged Mordred out of sight through the dining-room doorway, several feet further along the same time floor, by the sound of it, then returned to inspect Jordan, checking for a pulse in his neck.

"You are unhurt?" he said again, his blue eyes on her as his hands were busy with the other man. She nodded though it wasn't strictly true; it was odd and a little awing to see him do these things so efficiently, yet focus on her at the same time.

Evidently he found that Jordan wasn't dead, for he repeated the hand-tying and body-dragging, without much care for the knife in the man's shoulder. He didn't reappear right away, and when he did, it was down the hallway from the front door.

"Did the reeve escape?" he said to her, fierce and angry. But not at her. Never at her.

"I think Arthur followed," she whispered. She didn't care; it didn't seem to matter where either of them had gone – or where she was, either. Only that they were alive – blissfully, vibrantly alive.

Merlin's stormy blue eyes had never been more brilliant, his unshaven face so rugged and firm, his mouth so interesting – and then there was the rest of him, roughly dressed but strong and capable, completely unself-conscious as he came down the hall, towering over her. She ought to be unutterably satisfied just to live in this moment and drink him in with her eyes, indescribably and overwhelmingly happy.

So she burst into tears.

Sobs which she could not stop or stifle shook her, and she dropped her face into her hands to hide it from him as she cried.

He didn't say anything. After a time of seemingly interminable exhaustion, she calmed herself enough to look up – had he walked out? Was he tapping his foot, waiting for her to pull herself together?

She was startled to see him closer than she'd expected, hunkered down on his heels and leaning against the wall, hands hanging loosely over his knees, one thumb bandaged. Just waiting. He wasn't impatient, nor so overly solicitous that she would doubt his sincerity. If he chose to go elsewhere, he would go. But he chose to wait sympathetically beside her.

"Arthur will have to catch the reeve," he remarked, as if he hadn't noticed her hysterical outburst. "He'll either catch him or lose him – either way, he shouldn't be gone long."

She took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm so sorry," she managed, her voice sounding unsteady. "I didn't know that you and Arthur had already–"

"Did your cousins allow you to walk out with Taliesin?" he said mildly, ignoring her attempt at apology.  
>"No, I – was at the Daved Cathedral, and Taliesin said he'd been shown the home of the man who paid to help break you out of prison…" Freya let the sentence drift away, curiously disinclined to explain about Philbert – who was waiting still, presumably, at the cathedral for her return. But she couldn't seem to care about his pique or worry, or reaction.<p>

"And Taliesin left you alone because…" Merlin sought further explanation.

"He was going to Morgana's, to ask if someone could be sent to watch the house, so I didn't have to stay." She drew a deep, wavering breath and concentrated on letting it out steadily.

He nodded, accepting what she told him without assigning blame to her at all, by look, attitude, or word. Then he said, "In the note I gave Arthur, I thanked you for your help."

Not fully understanding, she said, "You're welcome."

He gave her a pained look. "I did not intend that you should be the one to follow up with Taliesin."

"I see." She felt herself blushing, and couldn't look him in the face.

He pushed himself upright again, and reached his hands down into her view. Yes, she guessed it was pretty silly to keep sitting on the floor. Instinctively she put all her weight onto her right foot as he lifted her easily and steadied her.

The shooting pain in her left ankle had remained muted while she was resting, but when she tried to test her weight on it, she gasped at the sudden splintering agony, and almost tumbled to the floor. He caught her around the waist and she clung to his arms, balancing only on her right foot – not an easy thing in the high-heeled boots.

"Your foot?" Merlin said with concern.

"My ankle," she told him.

Merlin bent as if he meant to lift her to carry, but she turned away from his arm in embarrassment and began to hop toward the sofa. He followed, letting her hold his arm for support, then lowered her to the cushions and knelt in front of her. He seemed to study her boots for a moment, or maybe the hem of her skirt, then lifted his eyes to hers – no fierceness or anger, just inscrutable blue depths.

If only there was some way she could tell what he was thinking.

"If you wait to have someone else look at it," he told her without emotion, "it may well swell and stiffen. In any case, if you've broken a bone, it will be extremely painful to remove your shoe."

She nodded agreement, but he still didn't move, until she bent to unlace the boot and take it off, then he retreated to give her space. Using her skirt as a shield as much as she could, she unrolled her stocking carefully, then held her breath as he touched her; she couldn't tell herself truthfully that it was due only to anticipation of discomfort. The front door down the hall was her point of focus, but she nodded or shook her head when he glanced up to question her level of pain, hoping her face wasn't too red. Without her weight on it or her own muscles moving it, the ankle didn't really feel so bad, and she was relieved when he finally sat back to pronounce his opinion that no bones were broken.

"I'll be right back," he told her, surging to his feet and striding down the hall. She heard his boots go up the stairs, move around in one of the rooms, heard tearing sounds.

Then the front door opened – and before she had a chance to panic and wonder, Arthur entered. He appeared hot and winded, and glanced to his left – into the kitchen where Jordan and Mordred apparently remained. Then he looked down the hall at her.

"Where's Merlin?" he said, and she pointed upward. Merlin's boots thudded back down the staircase, and Arthur motioned for him to continue into the sitting room, remarking, "I see you've got things here under control."

Merlin didn't immediately respond, but went on one knee before her again and began to wind what looked like a strip of white sheet around her ankle, gently but firmly. Then he said slowly, as if his mind were mostly occupied with his task, "Those two in the kitchen should be taken in. Jordan will need a doctor."

"I'll send for a carriage," Arthur said.

"Send for two – I'll take Freya home," Merlin suggested, tying the ends of her bandage and tucking them under securely. He lifted both her feet, indicating that she should turn sideways on the sofa to elevate them, and she obeyed.

"That might not be the best idea you ever had," Arthur commented, and Merlin shot him a glare with a trace of heat. "I lost Agravaine at the bridge – he went over the side, and I saw him surface downriver. I'll admit the odds are against him, but it's possible that he'll manage to get up one of the banks, and then… He'll either flee, or come after us again. Until we know for sure, you need to keep your head down. That means no driving about in carriages, especially somewhere you'll be recognized and maybe reported. If you're arrested, they'll take her along as well."

And he couldn't run or fight, if she was present, Freya suspected.

"I don't like leaving you here alone," Arthur added, "but Freya can't go with me to the holding cells with these two, and I can't take those two – especially considering Jordan's wound – by Sycamore Avenue first."

Merlin pushed to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. He was scowling now, looking like he wanted to pace. "If Agravaine doesn't run, he may look for us at Freya's cousins' place, or the chalet, before he comes here," he said. "Someone should be coming from Morgana's shortly; I'll send her home with whoever that ends up being. Then I'll wait to see if Agravaine comes here."

"I'll be the rest of the evening dealing with these two," Arthur said. "Tomorrow I'll begin to gather some first-hand testimony, something we can present to the council."

"I know someone you need to talk to," Merlin added, and Arthur nodded; Taliesin, Freya supposed. Merlin turned back to her. "Just rest for a little while – one of the apprentices should be here soon."

And he'd send her home like a child that had tagged along where she wasn't wanted. She sighed as the two men left the sitting room for the kitchen. She could hear them talking, but they spoke in low tones, so she couldn't tell what they said.

She still felt unsettled, scattered, as though she'd just scrambled through a whirlwind; rest sounded like a good idea. Leaning back against the padded arm of the sofa, she closed her eyes.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

From the kitchen window Merlin watched Arthur drive around the corner in the hired carriage with the two prisoners.

He hesitated over returning to the sitting room, but Freya had said nothing since they'd left the room. She was unused to the rush and subsequent drain of emotion and energy that danger always brought – well, that a fight brought. The afternoon's violence might have returned her fears of her dead husband – but who was he to help her with that? He should at least check on her, he decided.

Freya was asleep on the sofa.

Merlin watched her for a moment in silence, then sank down in the armchair at her feet. He was glad she hadn't received a worse injury than a sprained ankle; his heart had frozen in panic when she'd stomped on Agravaine's foot, heedless of the knife at her back. His body, watchful and eager for just such a chance, had gone into immediate action to take advantage of the distraction she'd provided.

He cursed himself for teaching her those moves, yet if she hadn't acted… He hoped, he wished that she would never be in such danger again because of him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When Freya woke the first time, it was with a sense of sleepy confusion. She was not in her bed in the alcove of Vivian's grand bedchamber. She lay on a dark narrow sofa, her bodice comfortably loosened, both shoes off, her feet propped on a small pillow. One foot was bandaged; she looked beyond them to a large mustard-yellow armchair, a single candle on a small end-table.

Merlin was sprawled in the armchair, slouched down so his head could rest on the back of it. His sleeveless tunic was unlaced at the throat, his heavy boots kicked off. There was an open book lying atop his left hand on the arm of the chair.

She smiled to herself, remembering the rancher Chadin, nodded off in the corner rocker after a hard day's work and a hearty dinner, while Helen mended his socks and rocked the baby in the cradle by her foot, and Donny and Anna Jo played on the rug.

Then she noticed the glimmer of a blade unsheathed under the fingers of Merlin's right hand on the other arm of the chair.

There was something that should have occurred to her, something that should have happened and hadn't, but she was only half-awake and so tired. Merlin was close by, and sleeping. There was no threat to her, and if one arose, he would wake to handle it, and protect her.

She turned her head on a cushion softer than the arm of the sofa, never wondering at it, and closed her eyes again.

When she woke the second time, she looked instinctively to the armchair for Merlin.

Instead she saw a bright-eyed girl with sun-touched brown hair pulled into a band at the back of her neck, wearing men's trousers and a leather vest over a light green shirt. Freya sat up quickly, glancing around the unfamiliar sitting room, and remembering the events of the previous day. Oh, her cousins would be worried.

"Good morning," the girl said, friendly enough. "Merlin said your name is Freya? I'm Amery, one of Morgana's apprentices."

"Where is he?" Freya said. It was morning, clear enough; daylight came in the windows in spite of the fact that the window-less back of the house was to the east.

"Gone back to the chalet." The girl slid to the edge of the armchair, her movements easy and unconstrained, comfortable in her male attire. "How's the foot? Can you walk to the table?" She jerked her head to indicate the direction. "There's some breakfast."

Amery, who was inches taller than Freya, helped her to stand. She put the foot down gingerly, but it bore her weight with little more than a twinge, and she made her way slowly but with increasing confidence to the table for bread, bacon, and some shriveling fruit.

"Sorry about last night," the girl said, straddling the chair next to Freya's. "The little crippled man waited several hours before Morgana returned from visiting friends, and it was late enough she decided not to send someone til this morning. Merlin was furious; I guess no one else thought but you'd gone on home. Soon as you're done here, I'll call for a coach and see you home."

How was it this girl could roam Turad alone? Freya thought rebelliously, jealously, then tried to let those feelings go with a sigh. Amery probably had no high-standing cousins to care about her reputation. She was probably armed, and trained to defend herself. She was probably not expected to make a good marriage.

The ride back to Key Park and Sycamore Avenue was quiet. Amery did not pry into the previous day's events, and Freya felt she should not discuss these matters, either. She would have loved, however, to talk about Merlin with this girl who evidently knew him, but was too shy to betray her interest to a stranger. For all that, Freya felt more at home with Amery than her own cousin Vivian. Would she ever fit into Turad's society?

When they pulled to a stop at Number Five, Amery helped her to the curb, then paid the driver. "Take care of yourself," the other girl advised, and with a cheery wave and a loose stride, departed on foot.

As Freya opened the gate, she noticed that Emma and the sharp-nosed neighbor Marcie were standing on the steps, both staring at her. She had no idea of the hour, but Emma was still wearing her robe over her nightgown, as if she'd rushed to the sound of Marcie's knock on the door. Freya winced, remembering again their worry, before beginning to move somewhat stiffly to them; Amery had suggested leaving the supporting bandage on inside her boot, and she'd complied.

"She is _wearing_ the same _dress_," Marcie commented acidly to Emma.

"_Where_ have you been?" Emma demanded. There was a white line around her lips; Freya remembered belatedly that she'd never returned to Philbert at the Daved, and sighed. She hoped he hadn't made too much of a scene.

Searching her memory, she couldn't recall if anyone had mentioned the address of the home Taliesin had led her to. So she answered simply, "With Merlin."

Emma drew herself up, struggling for a second for words which seemed to elude her, then their neighbor interjected, "Did you _sleep_ with him?"

Freya frowned with some puzzlement; she'd slept with Merlin close by dozens of times, in Emmett's Creek and on the two-week trip to Turad. There was something wrong here, but she couldn't put her finger on it, so she answered as before, simply and honestly, "Yes, ma'am."

Marcie gasped as if offended, and Emma actually swayed on her feet. But what could they possibly… The implications of the phrasing caught up to Freya, and she felt a fiery blush sweep over her, halting her tongue.

"Well, no, we –"

"Not another word!" Emma snapped. "Marcie, please excuse me this morning, I'll have to pay you a call very soon."

The neighbor bowed her head stiffly, and detoured widely around Freya as she swept to the gate, sniffing as she passed her, as though she passed a garbage heap.

"Honestly, Cousin Emma, I didn't –" Freya tried again, truly horrified at the misunderstanding.

"Inside – _now_." Freya had never seen Emma so upset. Her brown eyes, usually warm and caring, were stark and blank with something like shock. Freya wordlessly entered the house. Emma didn't look at her, but shut the door behind her, and took her wrist to lead her upstairs as if she thought Freya would bolt.

Her heard sank at the stoniness of her cousin's countenance. Weren't they going to let her explain?

**A/N: Out of the frying pan, into the fire… Trouble of a different sort…**


	16. Misplaced Propriety

**Chapter 16: Misplaced Propriety**

Arthur was waiting for Merlin when he returned to Morgana's at dawn.

"Where've you been?" he said tersely. "Change your clothes and wash – Drew's asked the council to meet this morning, and you need to be there."

So he wouldn't have a chance to inform Morgana of the results of her delay. Just as well, he supposed, in his present mood he'd anger her for sure, and find himself ordered to clear his things from his cell. He washed up in his room and buttoned his clean shirt on the way back downstairs. He was still fastening his vest when Arthur started down the hill.

"Freya get home all right?" Arthur said.

"I guess."

"We'll need her to come to the Palais too, eventually, give her testimony of yesterday." Arthur's thoughts clearly weren't on Freya. "Drew spoke with five of the council members yesterday, and four of them were inclined to admit doubt about the reeve's version of events surrounding your arrest," he began as they strode along. "I stayed with him last night after I was through with Mordred and Jordan – who'll live, by the way. They're both locked up and charged with their various crimes. The council will want to question them, but when the toll tangle is cleared up, I'll be taking them back to the capital for sentencing and punishment."

"Why are we meeting so soon?" Merlin said. "I thought you wanted a day or so to collect testimonies."

"Early this morning one of the watchmen in the Southgate district pulled a body from the river," Arthur told him. "It was Agravaine."

Merlin absorbed the information without slowing his steps, then asked quietly, "Are we on trial on this morning?"

Arthur snorted, throwing him a sardonic look. "In a sense, yes," he answered. "The reeve's death will look just as convenient for us as the judge's. Their decision will probably hinge on whether they want the hassle of an investigation against two agents or if they'd rather place the blame of the entire situation on a man already dead. Just, please –" he gave Merlin a wry grin – "don't lose your temper today."

Merlin gritted his teeth.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a long day for Freya, spent entirely in the room she shared with Vivian, alone except for the noon meal brought, left, then cleared away by Betsey the plump middle-aged maid, who gave her a snide sideways glance in return for her thanks.

When Betsey brought her dinner, Emma came as well, wearing an elegant dark blue dress slit up the sides to show a white underskirt. She was more composed, but still didn't quite meet Freya's eyes.

"I've spoken with Randall about your behavior yesterday and this morning, and am willing to hear whatever you might have to say for yourself," she stated.

Freya sighed. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I should not have left Philbert at the cathedral," she admitted. "I shouldn't have left there at all. I thought I was helping Agents Arthur and Merlin in their investigation, and – one thing led to another – and I ended up sleeping the night through."

Emma was shaking her head. Freya supposed she sounded less than coherent, but the full story would be unbelievable to someone like Emma. Even the parts that Arthur could corroborate left the gap of all night.

"Neither one of us undressed," she added. "I slept on a sofa, he in an armchair. That is all I meant when I said –"

"My dear girl." Emma sighed deeply, then crossed the room to where Freya sat in the window-seat. She took Freya's face between her hands, as her mother had sometimes done. "I can believe you guilty of no more than thoughtlessness, and we might have been able to smooth things over with Philbert – who was extremely and justifiably irate – but the words you said this morning before Missus Marcie… and in the clothes you went out in yesterday… and your hair so untidy…" she trailed off, shaking her head again. "I'm afraid, my very dear cousin, that your reputation cannot be salvaged."

"If you and Randall and Vivian know the truth, I don't care about anyone else," Freya pleaded. "I'm not really that set on marrying again, and I don't mind being left home with you go visiting –"

"I'm not sure we can let you stay, you see," Emma said gently. "If it were only up to us – if no one else knew – but we have a young, unmarried daughter to think of. If we go on as if nothing has happened, Vivian's chances at a good marriage would be harmed severely, our relationships with our friends would be affected."

Ah, the opinion of the public. Freya had never felt the unjust weight of it so heavily before. Emmett's Creek had treated her according to Padlow's desserts. And Turad's society would treat her according to a false rumor, unkind gossip.

"We'll talk again tomorrow," Emma said. "I'll visit with Marcie and try to explain, but it may be weeks, even, before we know the extent of the damage."

Damage she'd caused, Freya knew.

"Randall has mentioned a possible solution, but until his suggestion is – is approved, I don't think I should be more specific," Emma offered hesitantly. "Vivian is going to spend a few days with a friend of hers, and you can come downstairs tomorrow, but – it would be best if you didn't leave the house and – and maybe take your meals in the kitchen." She stood in indecision a moment longer, then left Freya alone with a supper she was not hungry for.

Of all possible outcomes of what had happened, Freya expected the most commotion over the news of the reeve's involvement, the capture of the judge's assassin, a little excitement over Merlin's reprieve. Maybe a word of rebuke for her neglect of Philbert, questions why she hadn't at least sent a message. If she'd known how her honest answers would be interpreted, she might have tried to emphasize her help for the agents, the scare of being taken hostage, even the injury to her ankle, which after a day of rest felt only stiff and sore.

How was she going to get out of _this_?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a grueling day.

There were short periods of intense questioning when queries were thrown at him without pause, even over his answers, when his replies were mocked and his veracity openly doubted. There were also long periods of waiting outside the closed doors of the Inner Chamber, with the glances of a hundred clerks on him with curiosity, suspicion, dismissal.

Pacing conveyed impatience, worry, even guilt. But he wasn't allowed writing materials to add to the ongoing report on the desk in his cell at Morgana's. They called for a short break at noon, but he and Arthur were not told that they were no longer needed for the day til the hour when all clerks were shuffling papers, locking desks, snuffing candles.

Arthur left with him a curt complaint about being late for dinner and instructed him, "Be back here at dawn."

Merlin didn't hurry back to the chalet. He didn't like the idea of sitting down at the dinner table under the eyes of Morgana, Gwaine, and the apprentices, having been scrutinized and judged all day. He figured he'd grab some scraps from the kitchen later.

He walked by way of the Daved. Taliesin was absent, but Merlin left him a note with instructions to meet him at the Palais with any witnesses on the morrow, tucked into a crack of the statue's base.

Still munching the heel of bread that was his dinner, Merlin leaned on the rail of the balcony overlooking the training ground, to watch the end-of-the-day exercises and catch the first night-breeze. Any other day he'd be down with them, but was too exhausted tonight. Tonight he'd rest and try to calm his whirling thoughts.

He heard the door behind him and knew it was Morgana by the scent she wore, faint on the air currents.

"How did today go with the council?" she said, a hint of teasing in her voice.

He grinned to himself and didn't turn, challenging, "You tell me."

She chuckled softly, low in her throat. "There are conflicting rumors," she said. "Some say the council will order your hanging for the murders of the judge and the reeve. Some say Alined and Agravaine were responsible for the excesses of the toll situation and got what they deserved, and the two agents are achieving good results. I figure since you're not in a holding cell tonight, it must be going fine so far."

Merlin took a deep breath and let it out. The council wasn't completely satisfied, but he sensed they believed him and Arthur, mostly. It would help to have Taliesin there, and the housekeeper Elsie, the next day. They hadn't even addressed the issue of the tolls; but in the absence of the judge, Arthur would preside over those meetings, and that, in Merlin's opinion, would be an improvement.

"Re-thinking your desire to be an agent?" Morgana said, her voice coolly studied.

"I never wanted to be an agent," he told her shortly. "It's just a job, like any other."

She made a noncommittal noise. "Not a job you want to continue doing?"

Not if it meant that he'd face situations where he'd have to decide between the life of an innocent hostage, and letting a guilty man walk away.

"Arthur and Randall are here," she added as she moved away, hand trailing along the balcony ledge.

He straightened. Arthur had left him just over an hour ago, with no hint of accompanying Randall on a planned visit, and for Randall to come here, it concerned Freya. Yet Amery had reported leaving Freya safely at her home on Sycamore Avenue that morning.

The two men were waiting for him in the receiving room just off the entrance to the chalet.

"What happened?" Merlin demanded as he slammed the door open.

Arthur said to Randall, "Let me talk to him."

Randall, with a grave, disapproving air, bowed his head in acquiescence.

"What?" Merlin repeated more forcefully.

There was a glint of amusement in Arthur's solemnity that calmed Merlin's concern somewhat. "It seems Miss Freya wasn't returned to her home until an hour past dawn this morning?"

"The apprentice that was sent for to escort her did not arrive til just before daybreak," Merlin stated, loudly enough that Randall could hear. "You ordered me, as you recall, to stay in the house because of the risks associated with my arrest – and if that happened while I was escorting Miss Freya, she would have been brought to the cells also. We had no choice but to wait, and I assure you, her honor was not compromised in any way."

Arthur cleared his throat. "It seems when Miss Freya arrived this morning, she was observed by a neighbor. It seems the neighbor noticed she still wore the same clothing as she'd departed the house wearing, the previous day. It seems, she was overheard to say that she had been with you all night, and that she had – slept with you."

Merlin cursed the busybody, calmly and aloud. Randall snorted without a change of expression, and Arthur chuckled.

"The damage is done," Randall said. "I can believe you the same as Emma believed Freya's explanation, but that doesn't change what the gossip and rumors will do to the reputations of all the members of my family. I did warn you once, so I am here to demand that you make reparations, insofar as you are able and willing."

Able and willing? What was he getting at?

Merlin took a wary step back – how ridiculous would it be if Freya's cousin challenged him to a duel? Should he let the man win? he couldn't hurt him.

"You must marry her," Arthur said. His voice betrayed an edge of laughter, but Randall was absolutely serious, and never blinked.

"No," Merlin said immediately.

"I'm not sure you understand the position I find myself in –" Randall began, but Merlin cut him off.

"I understand fully, and the answer is still no. Find someone else, some gentleman to rescue her," he spoke bitterly.

Arthur prodded, "You mean to say, you don't want her?"

Something rose in Merlin's chest, swift and tight. He looked at Arthur, saw in his blue eyes an absence now of mirth, the beginning of a comprehension of Merlin's feelings. That was something he couldn't take back, couldn't change, couldn't beat out of the man, though at that moment he wished he could.

"_Damn_ you," he said instead, calmly but forcefully, and turned to leave.

He sensed movement behind him, but Arthur was smart enough not to crowd him as he came around, hand on the door to keep it shut.

"What is it, then," Arthur said in a low voice, "that keeps you from playing the gentleman, and offering for her hand?"

Merlin leaned toward him, speaking now so Randall would not hear. "_You_ should know, better than any. She deserves far better than I could ever offer."

"Here in Turad, she'll not get an offer better than you," Arthur returned seriously. "Not anymore."

"Then I'll take her away from here. Anywhere she wants to go." Merlin knew he sounded like he was grasping at straws.

"Where would she go, except back to Emmett's Creek and in disgrace?" Arthur said.

"She marries me, likely she'll end up there, anyway."

Arthur nodded. "It's up to you, then, how she goes back. Married to the new reeve, or –" he paused deliberately – "worse off than when she left, and because of you."

Merlin couldn't deny it was his fault she hadn't gotten home safely and discreetly at a decent time the night before. He told Arthur, "If she has any sense, she'll turn me down."

Arthur looked past him at Freya's cousin and nodded triumphantly, not bothering to hide his grin.

And what was it, welling up inside Merlin, that suddenly made him feel like grinning, too?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The reflection that Freya saw in the small mirror over the little table in her alcove that morning made her sigh, and wish that it had rained. Extra fresh, cool water to pat over her face was unavailable otherwise, with what it cost for the watermen to cart their daily supply from the river. She certainly looked as if she'd been crying half the night. What girl wanted to face a proposal from a man who'd been talked – or shamed – into it? Maybe he'd take one look and change his mind.

The bedroom door clicked open softly, and Emma's dress hem rustled over Vivian's thick rug as she came around the corner. She drew back at little when she saw Freya's face, then forced a smile that was too encouraging.

"Agent Merlin is here, dear," she said. "He's waiting in the sitting room for you; we'll give you some time alone with him before breakfast."

So early? But she didn't want to postpone the interview, either.

She followed Emma past Vivian's empty bed, and descended the stairs more slowly than her cousin, who gave her a smile before disappearing into the kitchen. Freya paused at the arch doorway of the sitting room to watch him.

Merlin looked so different from when she'd seen him last. His hair was damp from washing, and he was dressed as he had been a week ago, the charcoal-gray trousers, the deep red vest, but this morning he wore the matching jacket she'd returned, in spite of the heat, and a white cravat tied at his throat, ends neatly tucked down. He was clean-shaven and seemed as comfortable as when he'd been rough and ragged, sleeping in an armchair. He could rub shoulders with such as Philbert, today, and to her mind, he was also ten times the man that Philbert was.

He was pacing before the fireplace, hands in his trouser pockets, an intense frown on his face. He was dressed as a man intending to propose to his beloved, but the agitation in his movement betrayed his disinclination, she thought uncomfortably.

Freya wondered if he'd noticed her entrance, but he gave no indication she'd taken him by surprise when she greeted him quietly, "Good morning."

He simply turned and looked at her.

She'd been afraid of what she would see in his face. After crying herself to sleep, she'd dreamed of him in a dozen different moods in reaction to her and their situation – disgust, anger, hate, amusement, condescension. But there was none of that, not even discomfort, she saw, only an attentive patience.

_Far cry from Emmett's Creek_, he'd said. _Can you talk about it? Can you walk with me?_

"Can we sit down?" she said, suddenly feeling shaky and unsure. It was hard to hold midnight resolutions, here in daylight and in his presence.

She turned to the sofa below the front window, and he followed. As she smoothed her skirt – more nervous gesture than re-arrangement of wrinkled material – he leaned his forearms on his knees, exactly as he had every day driving Padlow's wagon. And she could see the scars on his wrists, under his cuffs.

"I'm sorry," he said first, startling her. "I should not have let you stay, when I first suspected no one would come anymore that evening. I should not have asked you to meet with Taliesin, I should not have involved you in what I knew might be a dangerous investigation. Can you forgive me for this?"

She was speechless for a moment. Of all the things she thought to hear from him, an apology and request for forgiveness had not been among them. But it was very similar to what she herself had intended to begin with.

"I am the one in need of your forgiveness," she told him. "My mistakes have cost you –"

"Freya," he interrupted, and she met his eyes. It was almost too much for her resolve. That soul-searching gaze seemed reversed, as if he invited her to look straight into his own heart. Never had he been so open to anyone, in her experiences with him. She wavered; then he said, "I came here this morning to ask you to marry me."

"No," she said, looking down at her hands making a knot in her black skirt. "You came here this morning because my cousin persuaded you that you were obligated, that you had wronged me somehow and needed to –"

"Freya," he said again, but she refused to look at him.

"I won't," she said, feeling a measure of hysteria rising, feeling she had to say what she decided, in the dark solitude of the night before, before her feelings choked her, betrayed her. "I won't let you do this – you have all your life ahead of you."

"You think that marrying you would be a sacrifice for _me_?" There was no heat in his voice, only incredulity. "I did not say, I have come here to offer to marry you, I said-"

"No," she said quickly. He'd be relieved once he stopped to think about the wisdom of her decision, no matter what his reasons for coming here. "You can go where you please, do what you please, be whoever and whatever you want to be. You must not –"

"Freya," he said a third time, as if warning her not to go on, as if he understood what she was saying, and what she was not, and didn't want her to say either. He moved to the edge of the sofa, no longer easy and comfortable, but tense and wary.

"No," she said again, straightening her back. No, she could not allow fanciful daydreams, or the desire to touch him, or the regret that she would not belong to him… "No," she repeated, forcefully.

He put his hands on the edge of the seat, to brace himself, or to push to his feet. She didn't think he was looking at her anymore, but couldn't risk a glance to be sure. He was better off without her; they both knew it.

"Tell me to go," he said in a low voice. The skin of his scarred knuckles was white from his grip. "Tell me to go, and I will not trouble you again."

She said softly, "Go." Anything further would catch on the sob rising in her throat.

Merlin pushed himself up and quit the room in a handful of strides.

Freya heard the front door close firmly moments later, and twisted on the sofa, kneeling so she could see out the window, watch him walk away one last time.

He closed the gate behind him, settling his hat on his head, the wide brim throwing shadow over his face in the rising sun. For a moment he stood outside the gate, gazing down at the sidewalk, hands pushing the tails of his jacket back to plunge into his pockets. He paced forward, stepped around the sycamore, and was gone.

That was that.

All that was left her was to pack her few belongings once again, gather the little coin that remained from the sale of the wagon and horses. And decide which direction to walk.

Her cousins couldn't keep her without great sacrifice, and they had already given her so much. She wouldn't return to Emmett's Creek to face the questions and pity of her friends, to exacerbate the situation with Padlow's enemies for Merlin to deal with if and when he came, to have to face him there again in Percy's common room.

Tears threatened, burning the back of her throat. She was worse off now than when her mother had died. All of it had been for nothing; she had nothing to show for the last six and a half years.

Emma appeared in the doorway of the sitting room to say with surprise, "Agent Merlin didn't stay to have breakfast with us?"

They would be angry with her now, all of them. She felt nervous again, to the point of nausea. She answered softly, "No."

Emma beckoned, and Freya followed her to the breakfast room, where Randall and Arthur had already begun their meals. As Emma seated herself, she prodded Freya gently, "Don't you and Agent Merlin have an announcement to make?"

Freya stayed standing; she was beginning to hate the word. "No," she said again, even more softly. The room itself seemed to be listening, and Arthur watched her sharply from the foot of the table.

"He made you a proposal of marriage?" Randall questioned evenly, laying down his fork.

Respectfully, she moved where he could see her, and nodded.

Emma's mouth dropped open, before she burst out disbelievingly, "You _didn't_ turn him _down_?"

Freya flushed miserably. The same chagrined surprise was reflected on both men's faces. She spoke mostly to Randall, but it came out as little more than a whisper. "I appreciate that you approached him to make the offer."

"But – why?" Emma said in exasperation. "My dear girl, do you not understand-"

Randall lifted his hand slightly, gesturing to his wife, who fell silent. "We did not think we would have to counsel you to this course," he said in his deep, rough voice. "But I am sure you have good reasons for a refusal?"

"I – made a mistake when I – remained with Padlow," she said haltingly, dropping into her seat. She had not explained much about her marriage to her cousins, and had no desire to answer those questions now. Had no desire to try to explain her feelings. "I do not want to – put myself into another – marriage, without being sure that –"

"Miss Freya, surely you know that Merlin and Padlow are as different as night and day!" Arthur interjected. He glanced quickly up the table at Freya's cousins, as though aware that he should not reveal to much. "You should expect that Merlin would treat you – much differently."

Emma looked at Arthur speculatively; Freya didn't want those questions to become more pointed. "I know," she said softly; she was mashing her napkin into a ball below the tablecloth. "But he should not be punished for – what happened – I can't do that to him, just for my reputation –"

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Emma exclaimed.

Randall reached up to wipe his mouth with his napkin, a puzzled wrinkle between his busy graying brows. "Have you considered his reputation?"

"Yes," she answered. "To have a wife that he was forced to marry for appearance's sake – and a constant reminder –" And he was so young, yet…

"Have you considered," Randall repeated, more slowly, "his reputation, if he _doesn't_ marry you?"

Freya stared at him speechless for a moment, then said faintly, "But he doesn't have to stay here…"

"If he chooses to?" Arthur said.

"Do you think he cares about his reputation?" Freya asked him.

The agent smiled. "Not usually. But do you think he wants to think of himself for the rest of his life as the man who didn't guard yours?"

"Will you at least re-consider," Randall said, "letting him do the honorable thing?"

"I don't think you will be able to persuade him to come a second time," Freya said. She should feel relief; why did it seem more like sorrow?

"I gave your written testimony to the council yesterday," Arthur said. "But you could come with me today to see if they wanted to question you – and he'd be there –"

Emma was shaking her head before he finished. "That would be inappropriate, for her to appear at the Palais for questioning, even without this – incident, on her reputation. Possibly she could go out after dark, if she kept her face hidden."

Freya felt the heat rise to her face – to creep around in the shadows as if ashamed hurt a pride she thought she no longer possessed. And perhaps, after all, she ought to submit to her cousin as the head of the household and to Arthur as an agent of her government. Allow Merlin to do the honorable thing, here and now, even if it would have seemed a ridiculous requirement, elsewhere.

"Well, that's an option we can explore tonight, then," Randall concluded.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What a day," Taliesin commented breezily, leaning one hand down on the stone steps of the Palais entrance to help lower himself down beside Merlin.

He didn't open his eyes or shift from his reclined position. The steps were wide enough that the majority of clerks leaving for the day had plenty of room to go around him, and he'd heard the shuffle-tap of Taliesin's gait descending to him moments earlier. He concentrated on the low glare of the late afternoon sun on the back of his eyelids, the scarlet, yellow, and orange patterns threatening pleasantly to blind him.

"That council sure can put a man through the wringer," Taliesin continued. "They're finishing up with Andre, now."

Merlin was officially on parole on Arthur's word and as his responsibility, but no one had mentioned revoking his status; he was free to come and go from the council chamber and even to pose his own questions to the witnesses as each council member could, but as the hours went by he found it harder to care, to sit patiently and silently through the squabbling and nitpicking among the members.

They'd begun that morning with Freya's written testimony, and the questions and answers Arthur had copied at the end of the transcript, clarifying her statement. Merlin hadn't stayed to hear it – it put him right back in that house, seeing her beautiful and elegant and scared.

Remembering he'd never see her again.

By the time they dispersed for the noon meal, the council had examined both Mordred and Jordan – transported from the holding cells for that purpose. Jordan had been eager to place as much of the blame as possible on Reeve Agravaine and Mordred, claiming ignorance of the judge's involvement. Mordred had sullenly admitted to the judge's murder and the attempt on Councilman Drew's life, the sole motive being greed.

Merlin remained outside the Inner Chamber for their questioning also; Arthur agreed his presence might prove unhelpfully antagonistic.

They had not voted on the matter, but most of the members seemed to agree that the reeve was primarily responsible, the judge's participation questionable enough to be glossed over. They discussed holding elections the next week for the reeve's office.

The afternoon's session had included Elsie the housekeeper, Bud the deputy who'd clubbed Merlin when his back was turned, Andre the lockpick from the holding cell, and Taliesin himself. It was a lot of information to sift through, but from Merlin's viewpoint, it was little more than confirmation of what they already knew. Elsie and Andre were absolved of any blame, and Bud's only punishment was removal from his position, since he'd been following orders and claimed not to know that Merlin was an agent.

"You know, I should probably thank you," Taliesin mused, and Merlin cracked one eye open to look at him. The old man's clear blue eyes twinkled. "Never had an excuse to set foot in the Palais, before."

"You mean, none of the cases you helped me with went to trial before," Merlin said wryly. Taliesin chuckled. The sun blazed on Merlin's eyelids.

"So – how does your lady feel about the revenging business?" Taliesin ventured. "She seems kind of gentle to be a partner in that."

Merlin grunted, giving him no encouragement to continue in that vein of conversation. _Not my lady. Never will be_.

"Quite a lady," Taliesin continued anyway, and Merlin heard the grin in his voice. "Pretty. Brave. Pretty brave."

"Merlin?" It was Agent Arthur's voice from behind them.

He didn't move. Wouldn't it be nice just to sink into the steps, become part of the stone, just lie there and feel the afternoon sun, everlastingly.

"We're done for the night," Arthur continued. "Tomorrow morning, same time. Mister Taliesin, thank you for your testimony, you've been extremely helpful."

Footsteps passed them, down the wide stone steps, blended with all the rest, folks hurrying home after their day's work. Home – a dangerous mirage, he'd once thought. A distraction he'd never be allowed.

Last night he'd dreamed he was driving Freya up to the ranch house in Ealdor, that his mother and his curly-haired sisters had been crossing the yard, his father lounging in the open door of the barn. That he'd presented Freya to his family, introducing them to his wife. And everyone had been smiling. And that had felt like home.

"_Mister_ Taliesin," the old singer repeated, and chuckled. "Well, Mister Merlin, you know where you can find me. Been a pleasure, as always."

Merlin waved to acknowledge him, but kept his eyes shut.

He laid there, hands crossed over his chest, jacket folded under his head to protect the still-tender bruise from the stone. He laid there, trying to kill the alertness that had his fingertips sliding over the hilt of his belt knife every time a footstep came within six feet of him, and failing utterly. He laid there trying not to think, trying to think of anything but her. Another loss, again alone in the world.

He failed at that, too.

When the glow of the sun faded, he opened his eyes and watched the first star, directly overhead, pierce through the fading blue.

Merlin made his way back to the chalet slowly, paying the tolls rather than circumventing them. She didn't want him, just as he'd told Arthur and Randall. Of course she wouldn't, he would be a lifelong reminder of Padlow and her close brush with death. Foolish of him to hope and dream, even for one night, and if it was disappointment he'd felt at her answer - and all day - he had no one to blame but himself.

He bypassed the dining room, not feeling in the mood for bright light and talkative company. But his cell on the third floor felt tight and stale, his report dry and meaningless, his bed hard and hot. Craving air, he leaned out the open window, reaching ineffectively into the empty night… then looking down into the wide shadowy yard. He needed work – hard physical work.

Morgana's training grounds were right there, and thanks to her well-stocked equipment shed, he didn't need a partner or an opponent.

Two dozen or more stars were out, and one of Morgana's groundsmen lighting torches around the training field, when she came.

He stood twenty paces from the man-shaped target, arms loose, muscles relaxed. Fifteen different blades he had, different sizes, different shapes, some in sheaths and some held in place only by his clothing. He heard the door behind him, heard the voices and distinguished each in seconds.

There should have been a storm of emotion sweeping through him – resentment, outraged pride, fury, betrayal, hurt – hope? – but he kept his focus on the target to keep that at bay. This was something definite, something tangible, something he could control. Or at least believe he could control.

Merlin threw himself into motion.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya had spent the entire day in a state of agitation.

After the breakfast conversation, Emma hadn't brought the subject up again, but they both felt the awkwardness of ignoring it. And the morning post brought a lengthy letter from Gaius that threw her emotions into more turmoil – anticipating Merlin's eventual acceptance of the post of reeve, and lamenting her absence.

It felt almost a relief to pull a light hood over her head and climb into the hired carriage with Randall and Arthur, and she thought she understood the energy Merlin sometimes displayed, when a time of waiting was over, and action was imminent.

Now here she was at Morgana's chalet again, Randall and Arthur both in attendance. Morgana ushered them out-of-doors again, to a level grassy field hidden behind the chalet, and Freya's heart was beating like a trip-hammer the whole way.

She'd worried most of the previous night about what Merlin would say when he came to propose, what his state of mind was concerning the situation. Now she tread those same patterns in her mind again.

He was very proud, she knew. And she had been not a little insulting.

"There." Morgana pointed him out as they left the chalet for the torch-lit darkness of this great and surprising yard.

Merlin wasn't far from them, but he had his back turned, facing down the field. He stood motionless, jacket tossed to the ground, sleeves rolled up, one hand tucked carelessly behind his back. He stood casually, his weight on his back foot, but all his attention was so focused on a target down the field that Freya stopped walking half an instant before the others did. He was armed with a single belt knife, as far as she could see, with some sort of leather guard strapped to each forearm, but then he moved, and she realized her mistake.

Quicker than thought, fluid as water, he twisted, turned, bent, and leaned, plucking hidden blades from here and there about his person, to send them hissing and twinkling toward the target. Aim, hurl, reach, both hands moving as swiftly and accurately as a practiced card dealer.

Beside her, she heard Arthur chuckle, and Randall gasp.

Thud. Thud, thud, thud-thud-thud. She lost count. Thud, and… thud.

Freya had seen him fight, fists and feet, and associated the violence with his rough-dressed self, not the immaculately-suited Merlin who came to call on the week-end day. This was the first time she'd connected the two, in her mind, and was startled by how natural it seemed.

She gripped Gaius' letter in her pocket through the slit in her skirt as Merlin turned to them, unhurried and unsurprised, face expressionless as ever, and not even breathing hard.

He said nothing, made no move to join them, and suddenly the other three were looking at Freya instead of him. She told her feet to move, but it seemed to her they delayed before taking her slowly to him.

"A letter came from Gaius today," she began, keeping her eyes on the still-neatly-tied cravat at his throat. "It is for you to read, also, but first I wanted to ask you a question. Well, two questions. The first is, did what I said to you this morning cause you to change your mind about what you offered?"

"Have you changed yours?" he said in a low voice.

"Do you love me?" she blurted the second question. She supposed it didn't matter much, plenty of people enjoyed happy marriages without marrying for love. She just wanted to have this clear between them.

She hoped wildly he wouldn't turn this question back on her as he had the first one.

He only raised a hand to rub wearily at the scar on his forehead, but she had the distinct impression he wanted to pace restlessly. "Why do you ask me that?" he answered, his voice so intense it sent chills down her arms, but pitched so only she could hear. "I have no desire to hurt you."

She looked up into his face then, his eyes dark with the shadows, twin reflections of torchlight shining back at her. Curiously disappointed, she said, "You don't love me, then?"

He studied her as if they were the only two people on the field, in the world, and they had just met. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, spoke haltingly, "I love no one. I may not be capable of it any longer."

She wanted to cry. She wanted to argue with him, show him how wrong he was. Instead she nodded her head, recognizing how difficult it was for him to answer.

"I spoke hastily this morning," she faltered, and his eyes fastening on hers. "I – made such a very great mistake – with Padlow, that I was afraid of doing the wrong thing – with you. I thought – you'd be better off without me, but I didn't… um, think that all the way through?"

"You know me," he told her. "You know I'm not a perfect man, and I never will be. I may not even be a good one. I can't promise you much but trouble –"

Freya shook her head, cutting him off. She'd had trouble before, married – or not, as it turned out – to Padlow. Life with Merlin would be a walk in the park in comparison. He might not be thrilled about being trapped into marrying her, but she knew how he would treat her, how he would commit himself without looking back. She knew he would make the best of it, for her sake.

She took a deep breath. "Yes," she said, and was surprised her voice did not shake. "Yes, then, I will marry you."

He looked at her, then stepped close and drew her into his arms. It felt the most natural thing in the world, and she was content.

**A/N: Well, that's almost it for **_**The Agent**_** – epilogue up tomorrow, then give me a few days to get part 3, **_**The Reeve**_**, ready for it's own story heading…**


	17. The Wedding Day

**Epilogue – Wedding Day**

The exchange of vows was set for early evening a week later, after the men had put in a full day's work.

Freya flitted nervously from one thing to the other all morning, envying Merlin his busyness, in spite of Emma's dissatisfaction that he should work on his wedding day. The afternoon went a little smoother, mainly because she was distracted by the preparations – all three women had to dress just so, and have their hair done just so, and Emma spent close to an hour arranging and re-arranging the sitting room.

_It'll only be us_, Freya thought, but didn't interrupt her cousin's planning and excitement. Nor did she bother to point out it would not likely be a traditional marriage. The reasons for their vows did not include overwhelming mutual love or even a satisfactory social contract, beneficial for both parties. But it was much better than her first experience.

"You look so pretty!" Vivian gushed, standing beside Freya at her own three-mirrored dressing table.

Freya had to admit, she'd never worn such a lovely gown, a soft light blue-gray, with simple embroidery at the round neckline and the elbow-length bell-shaped sleeves. Holding a simple pair of white lilies tied with a ribbon, Freya wondered what Merlin's expression would be when he saw her. Had he made a similar effort with his own attire? Or would he simply come from the Palais or wherever he'd been all day, wash his hands and face, and be ready?

"It's just because you've only seen me in black," she said, though Vivian disagreed.

Vivian was still in her under-things, dithering over a last-minute change in her selection of dress, when Betsey knocked to announce the men's arrival.

"I'll go down," Freya volunteered. "You take your time; we won't start til you're there." Her heart jumped and fluttered, imagining the moment when she and Merlin would stand before the agent and begin the short ceremony joining their lives forever.

It all seemed so unreal.

She crept down the stairs slowly, clutching at the rail; at every step her legs threatened to keep bending and plump her down on her seat. She could hear Arthur and Randall chatting casually over the day's events, but Merlin, if he was in the sitting room with the others, was silent. Was he nervous, too? Having second thoughts?

"I think Gregor is going to be a fine reeve," Arthur was saying. "With the council's help, he's already replaced half of the deputies, and today he started to deal with some of the dishonesty among the toll collectors. No matter what decision the council reaches by the end of the week, at least the tolls will be exactly what they were set to be, with no more additions by greedy collectors."

"I heard that the council was going to accept flat-rate passes, also, for some of the people who live and work in different districts, or those whose jobs take them between those borders," Randall added, and Arthur concurred with a murmur.

The heeled boots that Vivian had insisted Freya wear with a lighter-colored dress clicked on the stone of the entryway, warning the men of her approach. Randall stepped to meet her, taking her hand and kissing her cheek, complimenting her with a gruff kindness and a warm smile, "You look lovely, cousin."

Arthur gave her an appreciative once-over and nodded his approbation with a polite, "Miss Freya."

Merlin stood at the front window with his back to the others, much as she'd found him the day they'd discussed her mistake with Padlow. He wore the same charcoal-gray trousers, but a light blue silk vest adorned with wavy lines of brocade, and a white shirt starched within an inch of its life – and a crisp cravat topping the first button of the vest, she saw as he turned.

His hair gleamed damp in the candlelight Emma had arranged, and he was clean-shaven. He stood looking at her a moment, as though the other men weren't there, and she found herself feeling young and shy. She tried to remind herself of the true difference of their ages, but could not for the life of her see a boy by any definition of the word. Maybe he didn't look as old as he'd seemed when he first walked into Percy's tavern, but there was mature acceptance in his eyes, as if he'd grown up a little more even in the week since he'd proposed and she'd accepted.

Then he smiled that slow, sideways smile, and stepped to her side. Unselfconsciously he offered his elbow, and led her to the sofa under the window. "Your cousins aren't quite ready?"

"Takes them hours," Randall remarked to Arthur. "When did they start?" He turned back to his conversation with the agent, not really expecting Freya to answer.

She was acutely aware of the fabric of her skirt brushing against Merlin's trouser leg. He sat loosely, relaxed, but she found it harder to breathe, as though she was being squeezed in a vise.

Marriage was such a big step, such a huge commitment; she wasn't sure what to expect, or what the future might hold. People changed, all the time; she had waited for Padlow to change for the better – would she worry and fear that Merlin would change for the worse?

They hadn't discussed the more intimate side of marriage, and while she was fully prepared for him to demand his rights as often as he liked, and to submit to the pain and humiliation, even try to do it with caring, she had no idea what to expect from him. They'd touched, of course, and often, but never with any hint of romance – or even desire, from him. Would it hurt even more if he simply ignored her physically, if he didn't desire her at all?

Freya jumped when his hand slid over hers in her lap, but didn't raise her eyes to his, just looked at his hand – clean, nails neat, one knuckle split open and scabbed over.

"You were fighting today?" she said, then bit her tongue.

"Reeve Gregor requested a reckoning from each toll collector," he replied without offense. "Some who were using their position to cheat extra coin when they could get away with it were inclined to resist."

There was something in his tone that made her look at him then, and she realized - though it wasn't a new revelation - that he was a man that much preferred decisive action to all the discussion and repetitive argument of the council. He liked making a difference, she thought, knowing he'd accomplished something good for the day. She felt her heart lean toward him a little more.

Merlin drew back, taking the kerchief she'd been mangling between her fingers. She watched him fold it clumsily, then reach to stuff it in her wrist-purse.

"Calm down," he told her, and took her hand in his own once again. "Nothing is going to change."

Looking into the clear blue depths of his eyes, she saw that he truly expected that to be true. She said nothing, but knew he was wrong.

Everything was going to change.

**A/N: That's it, then! Until part 3… oh, I guess I'll be putting up the prologue of **_**The Reeve**_** as an extra chapter here, so you all will know when that's got it's own story heading… **

**PS, Thank you everyone who took the time and effort to let me know in reviews that you were enjoying the story – I really appreciate that!**


	18. Chapter 18

**The Reeve**

**Prologue – The Contract**

A reeve's contract, especially for the smaller towns of the region, was a vague agreement in general. Much like an agent's writ, or a marriage vow. Or even a councilor's inaugural certification, really. The standard premise was laid out in broad terms to cover years, if not a lifetime, of specific occurrences, a governing guide of behavior and decision rather than step-by-step instructions on how to proceed toward success.

It was debatable, perhaps, whether success in any case is ever possible.

Included in the legal language were conditions stated and implied, certain categories excluded because assumed. A reeve, like an agent or councilor, swore to uphold the written code of law, but also to be an upright and trustworthy servant of society, an example to the best of his ability. A revenger had no such oath, but for an y in a position of authority, it lay with the individual to keep his word, and only the strength and willingness of the folk he was contracted to, to hold him to it. In the case of Emmett's Creek, the posse held their reeve to account for his crimes with his life after many years of suffering under his authority. In the case of Turad, a much larger city, Uther had sent an agent with special authority to prevent something similar, and on a grander scale. Unlike Sage Springs, and except for the judge and reeve, Turad had accepted the agent with gratitude.

A marriage vow was also a long-term agreement, nonspecific and all-inclusive in its wording, so much included and yet left out at the same time. And like the more public offices of reeve or agent, the years spent fulfilling the contract were open to the interpretation of the individual who'd signed and spoken his word.

The common folk of Turad and Emmett's Creek and everywhere in between likely didn't give a thought a day to the face of their reeve's oath. And still fewer thought of the couple dozen agents roaming the realm on Uther's business.

Many spouses also, years into their marriage, wasted no time in contemplating the words of their vows and how best to live by them. Many spouses, like many reeves and even an agent or two, chose to use their promise to their own advantage and benefit, regardless of the second person or persons of the contract. And while very few wives would lynch their husbands for a breach of trust or other incidents of not living up to the vow, it wasn't unheard of for wives to turn sour and nagging, for husbands to shout and slam doors and even resort to physical violence.

More often than that, the active component implied in the marriage contract was neglected after a time, both parties drifting into a noncompliance that was at least familiar if not always comfortable. Marriages like Percy and Shasta's, or Gaius and Alice's, or Arthur and Gwen's, or Drew and Nell's, were few and far between.

Over the weeks following his own marriage, Merlin was faced with plenty of time to contemplate these truths.

The days of physically enforcing the council's decisions were far fewer than days of debate and deliberation. Merlin's presence in the Inner Chamber was daily required; his input solicited almost never. He thought sometimes he would explode with the irritation of inactivity.

But he had given his oath to Arthur as a temporary agent, and if it was part of his sworn duty to go slowly insane with boredom, he guessed he'd grit his teeth and try not to hurt anyone in the process. He watched Councilman Drew and thought of his trim happy little wife.

He watched Arthur and silently demanded his freedom.

**A/N: Okay, here we're started on the third and last part of this series. I'm 8 or so chapters away from finishing (! I know) my NaNo story from last November… and, whew!, when that's done, I will (probably) be posting that to fictionpress (I'll let you know if you're interested in reading it) and starting on the final installment of my "Towers" series (**_**Vortigern's Tower, The Towers of Lionys**_**) – **_**Torr Badon**_**. Cheers!**


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